No Smoke Without Fire
by Lawson227
Summary: Juliet and Carlton find themselves in remarkably similar predicaments. What they choose to do about it, however, remains to be seen. Shules & Marlowe both exist... but eventual Lassiet. Spoilers through ep. 6.09: Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat
1. Chapter 1

**No Smoke Without Fire**

A new Lassiter/Juliet story, since I can't seem to help myself. Although I blame this one on Loafer and a line from her divine "Lassiter and the Valentine." Go, read. I'll still be here. And yanno, I had intended this to be light and funny, but then it got all internal and thinky. Also something I can't seem to help.

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat. Needless to say, it'll soon veer off into non-canon territory. Also something I can blame on Loafer and her nudging.

**AN:** Title of the story comes from a Duffy song found on the soundtrack for the film AN EDUCATION. Beautiful movie, beautiful song.

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><p><em>"Whoa there, slugger! What are we, dating?"<em>

Juliet sat straight up, blinking into the dark, her throat tight with a gasp that had apparently tried to escape, but instead, left her breathing hard, her heart racing, and a cool bead of sweat trickling in a teasing line from the base of her throat down between her breasts. Beside her, Shawn slept on, blissfully unaware that his girlfriend was in the midst of a… predicament.

One that was becoming worse, night after night after _lovely_, dream-filled night.

It had started innocently enough, she supposed. Slowly. Little wisps of images, faint echoes of a word or two—only once every couple of weeks. Easily dismissed as an anomaly. Then the images progressed from wispy and fragmented to more fully realized. Words, became phrases, snippets of conversations thought long forgotten. Once every couple of weeks became more like once a week. Accompanying the increased frequency was the memory of touch—from the occasional brushes to the awkward hugs to one heart-stopping, all-encompassing embrace she'd felt for days afterward.

But even with the increased frequency, she'd managed to explain it away to herself. It was only natural. She'd literally spent the majority of the last six years with him—no matter who had flitted in and out of her life, with respect to personal relationships, he'd been the constant. Her bedrock. While technically, she'd known Shawn just as long, and as much as they'd flirted and circled each other over the years, she'd _still_ never spent anywhere near the same amount of time in his company. Even taking into account that they were finally dating, she could tally up the hours she spent with him versus the ones spent with Carlton and Shawn would still lag pretty far behind.

And not that she'd ever, _ever_ admit it outside her own head, she kind of preferred it that way. A little Shawn went an awfully long way while she could spend hours with Carlton and not ever feel as if it was too much.

Shawn might be her boyfriend, but Carlton was her partner.

All things considered, it made perfect sense that he'd invade her subconscious.

Right?

Right.

Still—the timing was pretty suspect. That those dreams would start marching through her nighttime hours like an army of ants at a picnic only _after_ he'd begun a relationship with another woman?

Yeah, wouldn't exactly take Freud and Jung to analyze _that_.

Okay, yes, it was true, she'd had the odd dream off and on over the years. She was only human after all, and while Carlton might be cranky, difficult, awkward, prone to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, had more than a few OCD tendencies, and practically had dysfunctional down to a science, he was also inherently kind—at least to her, had untapped reserves of sweetness that he'd just as shoot himself in the foot rather than admit to, was loyal to a fault, and had the most compelling, utterly blue eyes she'd ever seen in her entire life. Those eyes killed her on a daily basis, revealing so much more about himself than she was sure he realized, because if he did, again, he'd find it cause for shooting himself in the foot. Repeatedly.

And not that the rest of him was anything to sneeze at, either.

Which brought her to this latest dream. The one she'd been having every night for a solid week, increasing in detail.

The one where her partner was, well… _naked_.

"Get a hold of yourself, O'Hara," she whispered fiercely, unconcerned that Shawn might hear her. As remarkably alert and annoyingly hyper as he could be while awake, asleep, he was beyond dead to the world. Only the smell of fresh pineapple pancakes had the ability to rouse him. Actually, come to think of it, it was more like rouse him to a little more than walking fugue state, after which he'd descend into a "necessary post-pancake nap—to assist with proper digestion, Jules," not really hitting full functioning status until after noon, at the earliest.

No, she was safe. He wouldn't notice her restless tossing and turning, or any verbal reprimands she might feel necessary to deliver to herself, because just reciting them silently wasn't doing squat.

Not that verbalizing was doing any great wonders either—if anything, it seemed to bring the image into sharper focus in her mind's eye: Carlton, spectacularly annoyed because they were in a potential life-or-death situation and Shawn had seen fit to shampoo his hair during a potential life-or-death situation and because the HazMat guy and his scrub brush had just gotten a little _too_ familiar with parts of his body that had been hidden from view by the makeshift shower stall and hey, was it getting warm in here?

She tossed the covers back off her legs and flapped her loose t-shirt, trying to get some cool air circulating against her increasingly damp skin.

There was a lot she hadn't been able to see behind the opaque white screens of the shower, but there'd been more than she'd ever been privy to before. What had been hinted at by his habitually undone top buttons and the rolled-up shirt sleeves, and teased more fully on the rare occasions she saw him casually dressed had been revealed to be… well, pretty damned magnificent.

Seriously, the man had arms, shoulders, and a chest to _die_ for.

She wrapped her arms around her upraised legs and dropped her chin to her knees with a sigh she should've been embarrassed by, but you know, at 3:47AM in the dark of a January night, who cared?

Moreover, she should've been downright ashamed of herself that when she conducted a comparison—the man haunting her dreams versus the man lying next to her in bed, the man who _loved_ her, for God's sake—the man in her dreams was… dare she admit it? Coming out ahead.

Not that Shawn wasn't an attractive man. She glanced down at him, sprawled across the sheets, lashes dark against his cheeks, full mouth curved in a boyish smile, like he was dreaming of something wonderful.

Most likely the churros he'd been craving just before they drifted off to sleep and for which she'd refused to get dressed and swing through Rudy's All-Night Mexican Drive-Through and no, he could _not_ call Gus to go buy some and bring them by so they could all have a sleepover on the living room floor where they could stay up all night watching old black-and-white horror movies and crank calling people, primarily Lassie.

No. Just… no.

Now. Where was she again?

Oh, yes. Shawn, attractive man. Well, at least the attractive part was true. Despite his wretched diet he was in better than average shape and if he'd yet to reveal what had created the faded scar bisecting his smooth chest, it certainly wasn't anything that currently hindered him, while the scar itself added a sort of rakish, secret-past-we-can't-discuss, accent to his physique. His hair, when she convinced him to just let it air dry without the benefit of ozone damaging products was thick, if a bit rough, his humor and wit were undeniably sharp, if often ill-timed and his eyes sparkled with fun and intelligence and an irrepressible zest for life, but—

She sighed again, restless and a little unnerved. She couldn't deny there was just _something_ about the mélange of colors contained within the hazel irises that seemed to mask something essential. Something he kept so deeply hidden and buried so far down in his soul, it could well be hidden even from himself. Which begged the question, how could _she_ ever have a chance in hell of really knowing him if he was so unwilling to know himself?

Whereas, Carlton—

Carlton.

Slowly, Juliet eased herself to lie back to the mattress, turning away from Shawn and staring into the dark.

He was as much a mystery to her, maybe even more so, than Shawn. Yet she was more comfortable with the mystery that was Carlton. Somehow, she understood that unraveling the mystery that was Carlton, while gradual, painstaking, and maybe even painful, would be like unwrapping a worthwhile gift. Shawn, on the other hand—

In another truth she hated to admit, she wasn't sure that Shawn's mysteries would be all that comfortable or pleasant to uncover.

God, what was _wrong_ with her?

Carlton was taken.

_She_ was taken.

She _loved_ Shawn. Of that there was no doubt. But she couldn't deny the question remained as to whether she could allow herself to fall completely irrevocably _in_ love with him.

Worse still, was it possible she already there… with someone else?


	2. Chapter 2

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

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><p><em>"They're probably just being safe, Carlton… ooh! That tickles."<em>

Carlton stood at his bedroom window holding a tumbler of Jack. He'd tried convincing himself that not bringing the entire bottle back to bed would limit his intake. And make him seem less like a pathetic loser.

Right.

He looked down at the tumbler holding refill number four.

All it had done was given him exercise, going between the kitchen and his bedroom, enough to keep him just this side of sober.

Son of a _bitch_.

When in hell had sleep become an event bringing equal parts anticipation and terror? Not that sleep had ever come that easily, but at least when Hypnos would finally claim him for his usual five hours a night, he slept hard and dreamlessly. Or he had until—

"Shit."

He tossed back the tumbler's contents then stalked back into the kitchen where he left the glass in the sink and snatched the open bottle off the counter. Returning to his room, he resumed his place at the window, determined not to completely descend into cliché. If he was going to pass out in a puddle of his own drool then let it be propped against a window in perfectly respectable boxers and a t-shirt, rather than slumped in his bed, dress shirt half-open, top button on his pants undone like a sad-sack, middle-aged jackass contemplating life's failures. He could do that just fine standing up, thanks.

Rather than take another drink, however, he set the bottle on the sill and propped his forearm against the glass, the surface cool against his overheated skin. Fingers tapping a restless tattoo, he weighed his options. He could continue to drink, knowing it might blunt the impact without completely eradicating the source, or he could just break down the problem, bit by bit, confront it, and determine how best to defeat it.

He was Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective, by God. He didn't run away from problems. Everyone knew that.

So.

The problem.

Right.

There was no way to really break down the problem because it was so very simple and so very singular.

Juliet O'Hara.

Lovely, sweet, incredibly tough, tenacious Juliet who'd begun invading his dreams with disturbing regularity ever since he'd inadvertently stumbled across her and Spencer in the Interview room that not-so-long-ago morning.

Sure he'd fantasized about her. Empirically, she was a beautiful woman with whom he'd been in incredibly close proximity upwards of eighteen hours a day for the better part of the past six years. He'd have to be dead not to have some sort of physical response to the blonde hair and the toned curves and the sunny smile and those sultry, dark blue eyes. Since he was most assuredly _not_ dead and in fact, rather healthy, he'd endured his fair share of cold showers over the past six years—a willing price to pay to not lose her as his partner.

Because physical attraction was only the tip of the iceberg. She was smart. Tough. A crack shot. A damned good cop.

One of the nicest people he'd ever known. One of the sweetest people. And she liked him. She challenged him and she defended him. She was—dare he say it?—his best friend.

And he'd shoot himself in the foot—repeatedly—before he did anything to jeopardize that.

But then those damned dreams had started. Intense slide shows of their six years together—everything from Juliet as a preppy sorority liaison to dressed in the ridiculous short shorts get-up of the roller derby chick, and dear God, her legs were _amazing_, to clad in the sky blue sari from when she'd gone undercover as that sniveling idiot, Raj's girlfriend. There was her asking him to join her for Christmas followed by her discomfort and faint disappointment when he'd fucked up so spectacularly and yet— Even in the wake of that mess she refused to completely write him off when so many others would have. There had been countless second chances and awkward, yet genuinely felt hugs, and a wide-eyed astonishment that he'd understood _exactly_ what she meant by her _Grease_ reference, down to the nuance, all contributing to a growing sense of closeness that had set off warning bells in his head, but he'd ignored them, so sure that they'd never be anything but friends.

Then there were the two images that haunted his dreams most frequently—that were etched in his brain in living, breathing Technicolor, forcing him to relive them, night after night.

Juliet in his arms, clinging to him as she'd sobbed out the terror that had held her hostage throughout that long night and the relief that someone had come for her. His ego had wanted to believe that she was glad it was him.

His heart and mind knew better.

But dammit, he was the one. He _had_ come for her, would have come for her, even at the cost of the job that defined him, and ultimately, it was him she clung to as he held her against a dead clock face and the hope of a rising sun.

And then there was the image that tormented him the most—the vision of Juliet, rosy and damp beneath a shower's spray, never mind that the shower was a makeshift canvas stall in a parking lot and she was in the process of being scrubbed down by some HazMat-suited creep from the CDC. As always, she'd made the best of the situation, reassuring _him_ that it was probably nothing more than protocol, a safety measure and _ooh, that tickles_. The dampness had rendered her hair into a riot of waves and small curls and her shoulders had looked so soft and perfect and never mind that he'd often seen that much of her, when she wore sleeveless dresses or tops. It had been the _idea_ of what lay beyond that had had him gaping like an idiot. The thought that behind the opaque canvas through which he could barely discern the shadowy image of legs and hips and waist, she was nude and damp and probably warm and welcoming and most assuredly, perfect.

Much as it had felt like a gross violation at the time, he should've thanked his HazMat bath buddy. That brisk scrubbing had settled down key parts of his anatomy and kept him from embarrassing himself further. Thank god the scrubs they'd been issued in the aftermath had been plenty roomy, too, because despite the gravity of the case, his traitorous brain had insisted on flashing on images of lovely, damp Juliet at extremely wrong moments.

But no one could say that Carlton Lassiter was a man lacking in willpower. It'd taken some effort, but eventually, he'd managed to banish those thoughts and move past them, because dammit, O'Hara was his partner and best friend and that was how things had to stay. And then Spencer had happened.

It was inevitable, he supposed. Spencer was nothing if not relentless and despite all the other women who'd flitted in and out of his life, it was O'Hara who'd held his ADD-addled fancy the longest. Even as he'd fallen in love with Abigail, he'd remained torn—even Carlton, personal relationship-oblivious as he could be, had seen that.

Who knows what might have happened had Abigail not come to her senses, but there was no damned used dwelling on that, now, was there? She had and she'd thrown Spencer over in the interests of her own emotional and physical self-preservation.

Worst part about the dreams, though, was the guilt. Spencer drove him nuts, sure, and he was absolutely positive there was no way he was good enough for O'Hara, but then again, who was Carlton to say that he, himself was any better? God knows, as damaged goods went, he probably trumped Spencer by a country mile. And say what you would about the man, when it counted, he'd been there—for both O'Hara and Carlton. And he loved Juliet. Arrogant, wrongheaded, and too-often insensitive and stupid with how he went about demonstrating it, but he loved her.

He reached for the bottle and took a healthy swig, savoring the harsh trail down his throat and the slow burn low in his belly. Damn. It had been so much easier back when he'd been trained to see the world in nothing more than black-and-white absolutes. But Juliet had always forced him to look beyond those boundaries and now it was second nature, although he always verbalized the black-and-white absolute first. No need to let anyone know what he was going on in his head, although he suspected O'Hara, in that way she had, was well aware of what was going on in his head. With one vital exception. There was no way she knew what was tormenting him at night, otherwise, she would've been the one requesting a partner change, not him.

Thank God Vick had shot down his idiot, impulse request borne out of desperation and hurt. He would rather suffer through the dreams and work at beating them back than risk losing what little he had of Juliet. And then Marlowe had wandered into his life with what seemed like impeccable timing and he'd latched onto her like a drowning man to a rope. Even given the suspect beginnings of their relationship he'd thought she would be the answer to his problems. But he couldn't deny his immediate attraction to her had had as much to do with the blonde hair and lithe figure as it had the wounded expression in the hazel eyes that had spoken so eloquently to his. And as much as he wanted to believe it would work between them—as much as it had, despite their limited contact—he was beginning to get that suspect tingle at the base of his brain that served as a sign that all was not right.

It'd been too easy.

In retrospect, she'd liked him so effortlessly and frankly, that worried him. If she liked him so readily, then she couldn't possibly _know_ him. What would happen once she peeled back the layers of who he was past the surface?

Okay, yes, O'Hara had liked him off the bat as well, but she'd also had episodes of not liking him very much—and had been mostly honest about it. She'd had six years of living with him in all his iterations and still liked him. She'd made the effort to get to know him, as much as he let anyone know him—had made the effort to know him even beyond what he allowed, busting past his defenses—and _still_ liked him.

It was certainly possible that Marlowe would like him every bit as much, given the opportunity to get to know him—really know him. He'd promised her that they'd have that chance.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

But why? Why wasn't he willing to give Marlowe that same chance?

Because it was scary?

Even as terrifying as negotiating emotional minefields was for someone like him, he'd still never shied away from it. He confronted it in his usual take-charge manner and if he came out bruised, bloody, and more a little wary, at least he was still willing to take that chance. To charge the front line again and again if it meant claiming the spoils of war.

So it was just a matter of deciding where the true battle lay and what the ultimate victory was.

Dear God, why hadn't he realized it before?

Because he was an idiot.

This was war.

It was said that all was fair in love in war. Wonder if the geniuses who spouted that crap had any pithy sayings about the pain, because he _knew_—regardless of the outcome, pain would be involved. Just how much and who would be left standing at the end was in question.

"I'm sorry," he said to the reflection in the window, to no one in particular, an instant before raising it and flinging the bottle far into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

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><p>Monday morning dawned drizzly and cool, a state Juliet usually enjoyed, but after a mostly sleepless weekend, partially because Shawn had insisted on "watching" a <em>Friday the 13<em>_th_ movie marathon with Gus over the phone, she was running late, her hair was frizzing, and she hadn't even had time for coffee. In other words, it was not a Good Morning.

God, but she _hated_ those damned movies. She hated them even more now, after hearing Shawn and Gus, via speaker phone, scream like banshees, because Shawn had wanted her to feel included. She'd finally kicked him out after she'd caught him sneaking movie number four, _Friday the 13__th__: Jason Vs. Godzilla _or what_ever_, on his phone after he'd promised they'd have at least one Jason-free day. That had been Saturday afternoon, however, and it wasn't as if sleep had come any easier either Saturday or Sunday night, because those dreams—those damned dreams—had continued to torment her. Even the soothing sound effects CD she'd bought out of sheer desperation had only resulted in her now needing a new CD player.

Maybe she could talk Carlton into an unauthorized stop at a Target if they happened to be out on a case during the day. And if she didn't kill him first because, face it, Shawn and his horror movies were only an excuse. Her current state of exhaustion could be traced back to another extremely irritating man.

Well, well, well… speak of the devil. She'd know the line of those shoulders and the slightly arrogant set of that dark head anywhere. But what in the name of Sweet Lady Justice was he doing at the County Clerk's payment window?

_Sweet Lady Justice?_

_Gah._ Now he was even invading the language of her internal thoughts? Not that that wasn't perfectly understandable, dammit. Six years together. Many hours a day. Perfectly damned understandable, she wouldn't give it another thought, she had work to do, she always had work to do, paperwork was never ending, crime was never ending because lowlife, scumbag criminals always gave them something to do, they kept her in a career, yessirreebob they did. She'd go right on in to her desk and _all_ the work that awaited her before she killed someone. Anyone.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

Clearly, her traitorous feet hadn't been paying attention and didn't care how much work was waiting for her, since during her mental rant they'd somehow managed to carry her straight to her partner who was in the process of slipping his checkbook into his inside breast pocket.

"Had to pay a citation."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You? A citation?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," he replied mildly with—was that a _smile_? Not a big one, not even much of a smile by most people's standards, but a small curve of the mouth with those blue eyes mellow and even showing pleasure definitely qualified as a smile from Carlton. Especially on a Monday morning.

"You look a little tired, O'Hara." He reached behind himself to the counter and retrieved two tall cups with heavenly wisps of steam escaping from the vents in the lids. "Good thing I brought these with me. Somehow seemed like a Redeye sort of morning."

_Oh my God, yes, thank you_.

"Two sugars," he murmured, handing her one of the cups with another one of those smiles that weren't from anyone else except him and every uncharitable thought she'd had in the past five minutes evaporated. As she took the cup from him, their hands brushed, as they had a thousand times before, and as always, there was that little charge of awareness as their skin touched, but today…

"Thank you, Carlton." Lifting the cup to her nose, she gratefully inhaled the aroma of the strong roast underscored with the even stronger espresso shot, then took a long, equilibrium restoring sip. "You have no idea how much I needed this."

"Glad I guessed right, then." A fuller smile briefly flashed across his face. "C'mon, partner, we've got work to do." A phrase he'd uttered a thousand times before, but today…

Today, he briefly put his hand to her back, again, just a brief touch. Something he'd done, if not a thousand times, than certainly more than enough to not really warrant this kind of notice. Certainly not enough to make tiny goosebumps rise on her arms beneath her jacket sleeves and her nerve endings feel suddenly alert. But today she was sleep-deprived and hypersensitive and while Carlton was acting very much like Carlton, it was… different. Even a casual touch from him felt different.

Or maybe she was the one who was different. Who was seeing things differently.

By late morning she'd managed to convince herself she'd been imagining things. That she'd been, what was it that psychologists called it? Projecting? Carlton had been on her mind so much lately, it was understandable that she'd look for hidden meaning in every word or gesture when there was none to be found.

Certainly his behavior had signaled nothing out of the ordinary—reassuringly sarcastic with McNab, snappish with a uniform who'd filled a form incorrectly, muttering curses under his breath as they chased down a lead from a civilian informant on a homicide that on first blush had looked like a home invasion gone wrong, but that was starting to look more like a domestic abuse case. It was the sort of thing that sent Carlton into bloodhound mode, especially since a toddler had been left motherless; if it did turn out to be domestic abuse, woe be to the perp.

_Anyhow—_

What it boiled down to, though, was that it was clearly just her own stupid, sleep-deprived brain making things up because it had gotten bored with taunting her at night, so now it wanted to move on to taunting her during the day.

Bastard.

She yawned and rubbed at her gritty eyes, grateful that it was still gray outside, therefore not too bright, yet at the same time wishing she could be wearing her sunglasses. Propping her elbow on the armrest, she stared unseeing at the steady rain and fought back another yawn.

"O'Hara."

"Mmm?" No way was it time to wake up.

"Juliet."

"No…" There'd been no alarm. And her pillow was so comfortable and she was so warm. Why was Carlton trying to wake her up when there'd been no alarm?

_Carlton_?

She blinked slowly, her field of vision blurred, then slowly sharpening to take in the odd angle of the dashboard and the steering wheel and out of the corner of one eye, a wash of charcoal gray.

Carlton was wearing a charcoal gray suit.

"Juliet."

The field of charcoal gray shifted and with it, the pillow beneath her cheek. The pillow that wasn't a pillow, but that was, in fact, Carlton's shoulder.

The car's interior spun as she sat up, too fast, with nothing in her system but that morning's Redeye plus three cups of the station's questionable swill and the half a cruller she'd managed to consume before Shawn had swiped it off her desk in a breezy, there one minute, gone the next, visit to the station to say hello. Oh, and pick up a check.

"Whoa, hold on, O'Hara." The car steadied as Carlton slipped a hand beneath her elbow, holding her when she would've swayed the opposite direction and likely brained herself on the window.

"Oh my gosh, Carlton, I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened—"

"I do."

She paused in the act of wiping the corner of her mouth, cringing as she noticed a slight damp spot on his shoulder. "You do?"

At her nod he released her elbow and leaned back in the driver's seat. "You started the day exhausted, we've already put in a full day's work just this morning, combine that with the weather and riding in a moving vehicle, you just gave up the ghost." The familiar lines appeared between his brows as he frowned—but not in his grumpy, "you've inconvenienced me" or "you're an idiot" sort of way, but in a way that seemed… worried.

"You're not getting sick, are you?"

A flash of annoyance and even though she didn't want to admit it, disappointment, shot through her. Flipping down the visor, she checked herself in the mirror, licking the pad of thumb and wiping at the slight raccoon eyes. "Don't worry, Carlton," she said as she released her hair from its clip and ran her fingers through it. "You're in no danger of catching anything. I'm fine." She wound her hair into a coil with rapid twists, but before she could jab the clip into the mass, found her wrist restrained.

"Carlton, what—?" She stared down at his long fingers wrapped around her wrist, part over her jacket sleeve and part on her skin itself. If she wasn't already completely awake, that livewire sensation of his skin against hers would've done the trick. She'd wonder about _why_ it was so livewire later. Right now, she had to deal with a _now_-he's-pissed-off Carlton.

"I don't give a rat's ass about catching anything. I asked if _you_ were getting sick."

She stared up into eyes that had taken on the approximate hue of the inside of a glacier. "Uh…no. I don't think so."

The glacier thawed incrementally, although the lines remained, rendering his expression closer to worried again. "Okay, then. So just straight up exhaustion."

"Yes." Because monosyllabic responses were pretty much all she was capable of so long as he kept holding her wrist like that, his thumb moving, ever so slightly against the thin skin of the inside, right where her pulse was starting to pick up steam.

"Okay, then," he repeated, his gaze turning inward as he thought, still holding her wrist. "Lunch."

Stated, not asked, and definitely not inviting any sort of disagreement. Finally he released her wrist and shifted in his seat, turning the key in the ignition and allowing Juliet to finally draw a full breath and take notice of her surroundings. A parking lot of one of the beachside parks, deserted because of the weather. Not what she would have expected. Then again, she wouldn't have expected to have passed out on Carlton's surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

After three tries with a slightly shaking hand, she gave up on jabbing the clip into her hair. And she couldn't be sure, but she could have sworn she saw Carlton slide a sidelong glance her way as her hair tumbled around her shoulders, a slight flush appearing on his high cheekbones.

Dropping the clip to her lap and folding her hands together in order to control the slight tremors, she asked, "How, um… long was I asleep?"

She watched as his long fingers flexed around the steering wheel, sliding along the curve as they navigated a turn. "An hour."

_An hour? _"Carlton, we can't go to lunch if I was asleep for an hour! How could you let me sleep for so long? How could you let me stay asleep at all?"

"Relax, O'Hara. As far as anyone knows, we're still chasing down that lead." His voice was calm and steady, skimming along that lower register that tended to inspire calm in nervous witnesses and nerves in guilty perps.

As for what it was doing to her, right here, right now?

That was something best left for her subconscious to deconstruct. In the dark. When she wouldn't be sleeping. For the moment, however, she would just relax, as he'd suggested, and do nothing more than ask, "Where are we going?" since it didn't appear to be in the direction of any of their usual lunch haunts.

"Somewhere different." His shoulder rose in a shrug. "I kind of felt like going off the beaten path."

"Okay."

The corner of his mouth twitched again in that not-smile that really was, as he clearly heard the question in her voice.

"Look, by your own admission, you're exhausted and I just thought maybe somewhere quiet where we weren't likely to run into half the SBPD might be nice." Another faint wash of color swept over his skin. "I looked up restaurants while you were asleep. Found a French bistro. Just soups and sandwiches, but it, uh, sounded… nice." For the first time his voice faltered, sounding just the slightest bit uncertain. Like he thought she'd be upset. No… on second thought—not upset. Like he thought she'd disapprove.

But how could she disapprove? It was something he'd chosen for both their sakes. Something he'd thought _she'd_ appreciate just as much. Not that she'd just gamely go along with because it was something he really wanted.

"If you'd like something different, just say so." He fished his phone from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. "There's the list of restaurants I found."

And that's when she knew for sure. He'd chosen their lunch destination because it was something he'd thought _she'd_ like. She didn't know why. She wasn't sure why was even important. The fact was, she was being put first and she couldn't deny it felt… nice.

"The French place sounds lovely."

An undeniably relieved smile broke across his face as he chanced a quick look her way. "I was hoping you'd say so. It's a perfect day for some onion soup, don't you think?"

"Yeah." Holding his phone in her lap, she leaned back into the seat, relaxing for the first time in—well, too long. "Perfect day."


	4. Chapter 4

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

**Note to Loafer: **Hope this chapter's long enough. :-P

* * *

><p>Carlton paused, not sure he was doing the right thing. Then again, was there really any right or wrong to this? Analyzing where he'd gone so wrong with Victoria, aside from in almost every way possible, he'd come to the conclusion that when he'd made gestures, they'd often come too late and, as if realizing that on some fundamental level he was trying to make up for their tardiness, had made them too big. Too many of those stupid figurines well after their separation. A diamond necklace when, by all means, he should have realized it was the absolute end of the line. It was only afterward that he realized what he should have done was let her know, every day they'd been together, what she meant. That it didn't have to be a large declaration or gesture, but small… simple. They still most likely would have wound up divorced, simply because they were such different people, but maybe it wouldn't have been quite so disastrous and painful.<p>

Lesson learned.

So part of what he'd decided to do, without having any other real plan, was to start letting O'Hara know, by way of small gestures and words, what she meant to him. The coffee this morning. Letting her get some clearly needed sleep. Finding an out-of-the-way place for lunch, where they didn't have to worry about interruptions from friends, colleagues, or yes, boyfriends. Spencer was many things, but attuned to his girlfriend's needs wasn't one of them and Carlton wasn't above exploiting that weakness to his own benefit.

_All's fair in love and war._

This, however, went a little bit beyond small. Not much, but it was a gesture that might have come more easily a few weeks down the line. Still, exhausted as she'd still been at the end of the day, he suspected it was something she'd neglected to take care of. And if she actually had taken care of it, well, this was a multi-pronged gesture. Taking a deep breath, he knocked at O'Hara's door, taking care to tone it down a notch from his usual sharp, impatient rapping.

"Hey, Carlton, what are you doing here?" She blinked drowsily as she shoved a hand through her hair and like earlier in the car, he had to fight back the impulse to touch the loose waves and curls and see if they were as soft as he imagined. Thank God she wore it up more often than not—hair was a weakness for him and hers was especially tempting.

"Did we get a tip on that homicide?"

"Nope." He took advantage of the fact that she was more glazed than a typical Krispy Kreme donut at the moment to look his fill, enjoying the flush of her skin and the way the t-shirt and loose pants managed to find ways to cling to her curves. Shifting on his feet he added, "And even if we had, I would've let one of the other units take it. We're off-duty and you're in no fit condition to be out in the field."

"That noticeable, huh?"

It was possible she could have taken offense, always so determined to be the best, to be up to any task, to not show any weakness. He'd like to think it was something she'd picked up from so many years of partnership with him, but hell, she was that tough and determined on her own, no help from him needed on that score. The fact that she didn't object, however, was yet another sign of just how exhausted she was, along with the dark circles that her makeup had hid earlier.

"That noticeable," he agreed, making an effort to keep his voice gentle, as opposed to the judgmental that had a habit of slipping out regardless of actual intent. Judging by her smile and the slightly surprised light in her dark blue eyes, he'd managed gentle. So there was one hurdle crossed.

"And you wouldn't have just gone out on your own?"

"You're my partner," he replied, simply.

"That I am." Crossing her arms, she spared a curious glance at the bag he held, but otherwise kept her focus squarely on him in a way that nearly made him forget his own name, let alone why he was here. "So what brings you by then?"

"It'd be just easier to show you. May I?" He nodded to the open door, suppressing a smile as he saw the flush rise from the open vee of her shirt.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Of course, come on in—" She opened the door wide, ushering him through with a light touch to his elbow, babbling, "You must think I'm an idiot, leaving you standing out there—"

"O'Hara," he tried to break in, but no dice, she was still going with the self-recriminations.

"And it's still raining out there and it's getting cold and—"

"Juliet—"

"What?" She stopped cold, seemingly realizing they were now standing in the middle of her living room. And that he'd called her by her first name. Something else he was trying to get in the habit of. Seemed to work at distracting her at least.

"It's fine." He put the bag he'd been carrying down on her coffee table and took a moment to look around as she closed and locked the front door. Good girl. He'd only been to her new place a handful of times and of course, the last time, it had been shot to hell, the big picture window completely shattered, due to, no surprise, Spencer. Although he supposed in this case, he could place the blame as squarely on Guster as on Spencer. Regardless, they'd both been idiots.

Of course, that had been months ago and the window had long since been repaired. During the day, he knew, it gave the big room a sense of light and airiness—seeing it now, however, the curtains drawn and night waiting just beyond, the room felt rather more… intimate. Warm. Especially since she only had the one lamp on the end table burning while in a corner, the television played with the sound off.

"You weren't asleep, were you?" Although he suspected he knew what the answer was, even before she shook her head no. He'd gotten the distinct impression over lunch that sleep had been a real issue for her for far longer than a few days, although she'd been weirdly reluctant to tell him why. Probably because it had something to do with Spencer and he had a bad habit of letting her know exactly what he thought about Spencer. Last thing she'd want to listen to in her current state was his recommendation for dealing with Spencer—which usually began with some variation on a theme of shooting him. Considering she had no way of knowing that he'd made a pact with himself to cease and desist on the Spencer-bashing—at least in her presence—he couldn't blame her for not delving into greater detail as to the genesis of her sleep issues.

Weird, though, that the two of them were having problems sleeping at the same time. He'd heard of partners' rhythms growing almost eerily in sync, but to this extent? And again, he thought, weird. But which then made this gesture almost one of necessity, he rationalized. If the two of them were out in the field so severely sleep-deprived, someone was likely to get hurt. Not something that would ever happen to Juliet—not on his watch, dammit. Carlton had never understood the phrase "skipping a beat" with respect to heart rate until the first time Juliet's life had been threatened. Since then, though, he'd gotten all too familiar with it, but lately, the thought of any harm coming to her made him feel as if his heart had come to a complete standstill.

"I wasn't actively trying to sleep, but I'm so tired, my head aches and too much light or sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I told Shawn if he even _thought_ about coming by, I would likely shoot him."

For the first time, Carlton noticed her revolver sitting on the end table within easy reach of the pillow her head must have been resting on. Okay, then.

"Well, I won't stay long, then."

"I don't mind that it's you."

Carlton blinked at the sight of her hand on his forearm, bare, since he'd left his suit jacket and holster in the trunk of his car and had rolled up his sleeves. Which, actually—forget the sight—the _feel_ of her hand… Soft and so damned warm since, as she'd noted, it was decidedly cooler outside now that it was dark.

That soft, warm hand squeezed his forearm briefly as she said, "You don't give me headaches, Carlton. At least not on a regular basis." Then, she smiled, and God help him, he must be hallucinating, because he could swear her hand _slid_ off his arm as much as it fell away. Another sensation to lock away into the memory banks along with how her wrist had felt within his hold earlier, her pulse strong and steady beneath his thumb. He was only grateful she hadn't noticed the small caress he'd permitted himself, an almost infinitesimal stroking of that fair, delicate skin. He really shouldn't have, he _knew_ he shouldn't, but he couldn't stop himself.

It was fifty-fifty odds as to whether the memory of these small, fleeting touches would help or kick his ass with a mocking laugh as he tried to sleep tonight. At the very least, he was seeing another cold shower in his immediate future. And if that failed, more base measures would have to be undertaken.

So much for his vaunted self-control. A month shy of forty-three and a pair of fleeting touches from Juliet O'Hara had him reduced to a giant walking teenaged hormone.

"I'm glad," he replied, finally able to form a coherent thought now that she wasn't touching him any longer.

"So, what did bring you by?" She directed another curious glance at the bag on the coffee table.

Steadier now, Carlton led her to the sofa and urged her to sit, taking the spot beside her, just close enough for their shoulders to brush as he leaned forward and reached into the bag, extracting a rectangular box that he placed on her lap.

"If you already bought one, you can take this one back. The receipt's in the box."

"I didn't buy one yet." She ran her hand across the top of the box holding the stereo alarm he'd chosen with, as she'd said she wanted, radio, CD, and iPod capabilities. "I was so tired and my headache was so bad, I just couldn't stomach the idea of trying to figure out what to buy."

She pressed her lips together and, oh, holy hell, were those tears in her eyes? "O'Hara, did I do something wrong? You can take it back if you don't like it. Hell, never mind, I'll take it back myself—" He went to snatch the box from her lap and once again found himself staring at the sight of her hand on his arm—wrist, more accurately and yes, it was sliding, down to his hand, where she held it pinned against the box.

"Don't you dare." She sniffled. "Stupid tears," she muttered with an impatient swipe at one cheek. She looked up at him with eyes turned a brilliant blue-gray and for the first time, he felt his heart skip a beat in a moment where Juliet's life wasn't in danger. His, on the other hand? Oh, dear _Lord_. He forced himself to take as subtle a breath as he could possibly manage.

"This is just about the loveliest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you." Her free arm looped around his neck in an unexpected hug, there and gone too fast for him to do anything other than feel his heart skip again.

She tilted the box, reading the list of the alarm's features with a smile while he tried to get his breathing back under control as he reached into the bag for the rest of his gesture.

"Given how you said you reacted to that soothing sounds CD, I didn't bother replacing it," he said as he pulled a disc from the bag and handed it to her. "So I thought maybe some music, instead? If you like it you can set the stereo so it'll play the CD as you go to sleep and maybe set something different on your iPod to wake up to."

"What is it?" she asked, looking down at the plain disc, inscribed with a simple "Juliet" on the surface.

"It's a mix I made," he admitted, proud that his ears and the base of his neck felt only the slightest bit warm. "Just some low-key songs." That he'd put together because they reminded him of her and that he used to drift off to sleep when he _could_, but he wouldn't be sharing that—

Yet.

Before she could say anything, he reached into the bag one last time and produced a bottle of Bushmill's with an index card taped to it, grinning at her raised eyebrow expression. "And if all else fails, I brought you my Great-grandma Lassiter's hot toddy recipe. Family legend has it she used this for nighttime feedings once the babies got to teething age." He chuckled as her eyebrows rose even higher and her mouth parted, just a little, and damn, but the temptation was strong. But it was too soon. She was too tired and too vulnerable right now. And frankly, so was he.

Forcing his gaze to the bottle, he flicked the card with one finger. "I admit, it would explain a _lot_ about the relatives on that side of the family, but as a straight up sleeping aid, beats anything else I've ever tried."

"Sold." In an instant, he found himself holding the radio on his lap while she'd snatched the bottle from his hands and was on her way to the kitchen. "While I make us some, would you do me a favor and set the radio up? I'm so tired, I'm afraid the instructions will read like they're in Farsi." She paused in the middle of pulling a saucepan from a drawer and glanced back over her shoulder. "My bedroom's down the hall—first door on the right."

He nodded, his grip on the box just this side of a stranglehold. _Not_ exactly what he'd expected, in terms of the turn of events. In his mind, he'd imagined she'd be delighted with the radio—_check_. Maybe they'd share a toddy—okay, that was on its way to becoming a check. But that then, comfortably warm and relaxed she'd send him on his way, maybe with a hug, before plugging in her new stereo and drifting off to sleep. Maybe with a pleasant thought of him on her mind.

Being invited into her bedroom, albeit for a completely innocent task, was a bit of a left turn and one he wasn't sure his scrambled hormones were equipped to handle.

But you know, he was a grown man, dammit—moreover, he was a detective. Her bedroom—her inner sanctum—would at the very least give him a measure of insight into the parts of Juliet he had yet to learn. You know, this could ultimately only be a good thing.

Not to mention, a surprise.

He paused on the threshold, taking in the surroundings. The walls were painted a pale blue-green, a stark contrast to the dark wood furniture with its simple clean lines. The bedspread was dark brown with a wide frame of that same blue-green around the edge, while small pillows in creams and blues clustered near the headboard and a matching throw was tossed at an angle across the foot. There were throw rugs set at angles across the polished wood floor, a dark wood and fabric screen in one corner, and candles set in small groupings around the room.

Serene. That was one word for it.

Reflective.

And surprisingly sensual.

Much like Juliet, he realized.

The public rooms of her home were sunny and light, much what anyone would expect of perky Juliet O'Hara. The one who could challenge him on police code, who was cheerful and upbeat and could make conversation at the drop of a hat. But this room was something else altogether. This was the Juliet with whom he could be quiet . This was the Juliet who'd held on to him. This was the Juliet who'd refrained from telling him about Spencer not just because she knew he'd hate it, but because it had been _hers_.

And while he knew that Spencer had spent time with her here, it somehow didn't bother him. There was really no sense of the other man here. No impression left behind. Which, considering how _big_ a personality Shawn Spencer possessed, was more than a little curious.

He mulled on that as he unboxed the stereo and set it up on her bedside table, knowing which side was hers because of the extra wear on the night table, the hair clip left alongside the lamp, the tube of hand lotion that, when he moved it slightly, left a bit of residue behind. Rubbing it into his fingers, he lifted them and sniffed. Familiar, but he couldn't quite place it…

"It's bergamot."

He spun to find her on the threshold, a mug in each hand. "Excuse me?"

She nodded at her night table and the tube of lotion. "I guess you got some on you by accident?"

It was close enough to true.

"Primary scent of the lotion is bergamot—also the primary ingredient in Earl Grey tea," she explained. "So don't worry, Detective—no girly smell."

He'd let her go ahead and think that's what had concerned him. And made a note to buy some Earl Grey tea on his way home even though he'd never drunk tea in his entire life, Irish ancestry notwithstanding.

Taking the mug she handed him, he took an appreciative sip while taking another look at her room. As the whisky-laced milk warmed his bloodstream he felt himself relax further. "Your bedroom's beautiful, Juliet."

Juliet paused, the mug halfway to her lips, a slow smile blossoming. "Thank you," she said, with such a genuine note of pleasure and surprise, Carlton had to wonder if anyone had ever said anything to her about it. Crossing to the bed, she sank down on the mattress and took a long sip of her toddy, looking around the room herself, as if seeing it through his eyes.

"I changed it all up not that long ago. After—" She hesitated and he watched as her fingers tightened around the mug, her knuckles going white. "After the Ying/Yang case was finally done." Dropping her head so her hair shielded her face, she took another sip. "I wanted something peaceful and completely removed from it, you know?" she added in a small, muffled voice.

Without hesitation, he closed the distance and sat beside her, again, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Close enough so she knew he was there.

They sat, sipping their toddies in companionable silence until she reached over and hit play on the stereo, Eva Cassidy's gentle vocals streaming from the speakers with the poignant lyrics to "Fields of Gold."

Juliet said nothing, just sat, a calm, dreamy smile on her face as she listened and sipped and Carlton could have sat there forever, just watching as Eva segued into Peter Gabriel and on and on, song after song, every one reminding him in some way, of her. Eventually, though, he saw her eyes drifting shut as her head found that perfect spot against his shoulder and much as he would have loved to hold her there, the way he had earlier that afternoon, he knew if she was going to stay asleep, she needed to lie down.

As carefully as possible, he reached past her and pulled down the bedspread and sheet beneath before easing her head onto the pillow. Sliding from the bed, he lifted her legs to the mattress and as he drew the covers up over her, finally gave into temptation, running his fingers through her hair, catching his breath as she instinctively turned toward his hand.

"Carlton," she murmured, her breath warm as she nuzzled his palm.

_Holy Christ._

It was the damnedest thing, really, his groin tightening almost painfully while the rest of him relaxed very nearly to the point of sinking onto the bed beside her and maybe not moving until next Thursday. But he couldn't. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't. Because he was going to do this right, dammit.

For now, though, the fact that she knew it was him—that it was _his_ name she was saying in her sleep—

It was a hell of a good start.

Better, really, than he might have expected. It was one thing to silently declare war, but another altogether to realize that the battles might not be quite as bloody as expected.

Except one.

There would be no escaping the pain of the one battle he knew he had to confront head on.

* * *

><p>At the sound of the door behind him opening, he turned, smiling, as he had so many other days before. But this day was different and it was clear by the expression on her face, she knew it, too.<p>

"Hi, Carlton."

"Hello, Marlowe."

She took the seat behind the tempered glass with a sad smile. "So this is it, huh?"

"It's not what you think." Taking his own seat, he felt a heavy pang of guilt. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. He just felt truly bad that Marlowe would end up suffering the fate of collateral damage. None of this was her fault after all.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it is." Her smile deepened into something undeniably kind, although a trace of sadness remained. "I always knew I was the substitute, Carlton."

He felt his jaw drop as a shiver ran down his spine. Even though she definitely wasn't a vampire, there'd always been something a little otherworldly about Marlowe. This just proved it.

"How did you know?" No point in denying it.

"You looked so stricken when she was questioning us about my press-on nail," Marlowe explained, her expression thoughtful. "Like you were devastated that you might be disappointing her." She shrugged. "Of course, once I saw her, too, I got why you responded to me so quickly."

"You're a beautiful woman in your own right, Marlowe," he insisted, wanting to reassure her. "I responded to _you_. I truly felt something for you. You have been incredibly special to me."

"Maybe." She shrugged again and although she was trying for carefree and calm, Carlton could see it was costing her some effort. "But it's nothing like what you feel for Detective O'Hara." She folded her hands on the table in front of her and stared down at them, her nails short and unpainted, everything about her the antithesis of what she'd been when he first met her, but still so beautiful. So sweet and so nice. Just not the one he wanted.

"I'd hoped," she began, still staring down at her hands, "that if we made it through my six to eighteen months, that we'd have a true chance. That if you really got to know me, past the sick brother and the Clint Eastwood movie references that eventually—" Her shoulders dropped with her long sigh. "Oh, well. I always knew the possibility existed that what you felt for her would trump everything else, including her boyfriend." She looked up, a knowing tilt to her lips. "Is she still with him?"

He nodded, that shiver going down his spine again.

"And it's not stopping you?"

He shook his head.

She shook her head almost mournfully. "Poor sucker doesn't stand a chance."

A grin tugged at the edges of his mouth. "I don't know about that, Marlowe. She did choose him, after all."

She met his grin with one of her own and a raised eyebrow. "You ever think maybe he was the substitute, too?"

His smile faded. "I don't think so."

"That's because you weren't paying attention. My God, the way she looked when she questioned me," Marlowe replied with a rueful laugh. "Trust me, I think it bears consideration."

He laughed quietly, the thought too absurd to even contemplate. "Ever the optimist."

"Ever the pessimist." As had been their habit, she raised her hand, her gaze intent through the glass separating them. She nodded slowly, as if coming to a conclusion. "Except this time. You really think this is going to work."

Cue another shiver that he suppressed as he pressed his hand to the glass. "I don't know about that, but I do know I have to try." With a deep breath, he let his hand fall away. "Goodbye, Marlowe."

Slowly, she lowered her hand to her side. "Be happy, Carlton."


	5. Chapter 5

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

* * *

><p>"Why would I want to go to a movie about a tinker, a tailor, and a candlestick maker?"<p>

Juliet rubbed her temples as she resisted the urge to just smack Shawn straight up his head. With the butt of her pistol.

"_Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_," she clarified. Again.

"I've heard it both ways," he replied absent-mindedly, as he perched on the edge of her desk, shoving aside the documents and case files in what _seemed _like a careless manner, but not really, his alert hazel gaze taking stock of what she was working on. What case he might be able to horn in on. So obvious—yet he clearly thought she'd never noticed. By the same token, however, he also never seemed to notice that the only cases she left lying around on her desk tended to be high profile cases, the more absurd, the better. It was easier that way, sort of like leaving a catnip mouse out for her cats. And he fell for it, every single time.

Which was probably unfair of her, but on the other hand, maybe not. It was something she'd reflected on recently as she and Carlton painstakingly tracked down clues on the domestic abuse case that weighed heavily on both of them. There had been no bizarre mode of death, no odd setting, nothing out of the ordinary beyond what looked like a garden variety home invasion, a young mother left dead and a toddler who missed her mommy. But she and Carlton both _knew_, in that way that cops knew, something was wrong. They just hadn't quite been able to pinpoint why. Yet.

In a way, it made her angry, knowing that even if she had left the case file lying out, it likely wouldn't have merited enough attention for Shawn to lend his formidable skills, especially when taking into consideration how _he'd_ felt in the wake of his mother's leaving, yet at the same time, she was undeniably grateful. She and Carlton could do their work, in peace, and by God, they were going to find this woman's killer. Of course, it also left Shawn poking around her desk, looking for something else in which to interfere.

She sighed and rubbed her temples again as she ignored how he nudged one folder off the desk, neatly catching it before it fell to the floor and thereby giving him enough to time to quickly read the contents. Normally, she didn't mind, but today it was grating, mostly because a) despite what Shawn thought, she and Carlton _were_ perfectly capable of doing their jobs and doing them well, thanks, ever so, without his interference and b) his attempts to uncover what she was working on seemed more important that what she wanted to do. Together. As a couple.

"As for why go see it, how about because it's a smart, engrossing, psychological thriller based on a classic novel?" And starred Gary Oldman and Colin Firth and Tom Hardy. But that was secondary. Mostly.

He made a face, then brightened as if something had just occurred to him. She knew that face. Therefore, she knew better.

"Hey, how about _Underworld Awakening_?"

Really, she shouldn't have been surprised. Really, she wasn't. But still, she asked, "Why?"

"Hello, Kate Beckinsale," he replied, looking baffled. "In leather. And Three-D. I bet they're not showing the candlestick maker movie in Three-D."

Rubbing at her temples once more, she turned away, her gaze landing on Carlton, focus intent on his computer's screen as he typed. Amazing how just looking at him, not even making eye contact, had a way of settling her down. Knowing he was there and steady and solid and not spouting inanities about how _Underworld _would be awesome and maybe she could get a leather outfit so they could play Vampire and Werewolf in Love and hey, maybe evidence still had the wolf head from that case a couple years ago?

Juliet closed her eyes in frustration and rubbed at her temples _again_, resisting the temptation to just rip her hair out because surely that would feel better. Turning back to Shawn, she opened her eyes and pasted on what she hoped was an enticing smile.

"Shawn, I've been looking forward to this remake of _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_ and I'd really like to go see it."

His brows drew together as his gaze met hers and for a moment—a genuinely lovely moment—she thought he was actually going to agree.

"No can do, Jules." And for once, rather than follow it up with some smarmy or irrelevant _non sequitur_, he actually remained serious—well, as serious as anyone could be while making a cat's cradle from a piece of string. "Look, we get enough of the dark psychological, thinky stuff with what we do around here. When I go to the movies, I just want to be entertained."

Sad part was, she could understand exactly what he meant and it was certainly a valid point. Enough of one to make her if not agree to _Underworld_, because no, she was not fueling any leather fantasies, at least consider compromising on _Mission Impossible_. But before she could posit her suggestion, he spoke again.

"I mean c'mon, you don't want to end up like Lassie, do you? He'd probably consider that _Tinker_ movie a training film." Weaving his fingers through another intricate cat's cradle, he giggled like a naughty boy at his own supposed humor and Juliet felt something snap.

Still in mid-laugh, Shawn never saw the shove coming and she couldn't deny a certain satisfaction as he slipped from the edge of her desk and landed squarely on the floor unable to catch himself because his fingers were irrevocably tangled in string.

"What was _that_ for?" he whined as he scrambled up, rubbing at his ass.

She took her seat and drew it up beneath her desk. "Go away."

"But—"

"Shawn, I'm serious. I have a lot of work to do and you need to leave. Now." She put her hands on her keyboard, amazed at how steady they were considering how much adrenaline and anger was currently coursing through her system.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as bewilderment of an entirely different stripe began crossing his face. "But, Jules—"

"You heard the lady, Spencer. We have a lot of work to do." A familiar, long-fingered hand clamped onto Shawn's shoulder as Carlton forcibly steered Shawn away from Juliet's desk, growling, "So be a good boy and go play in traffic. Preferably freeway."

Never had Juliet been so glad to hear her bad-tempered partner's patented "Don't screw with me," snarl. It was enough to almost make her weep.

"But, Jules what about the movie?" Shawn called back over his shoulder as Carlton passed him off to McNab, snapping directions that he was not to physically release Spencer until he was out of the building and if he entered again, he was to be immediately placed under arrest for harassment or disturbing the peace or littering for all Carlton cared.

"Have fun at _Underworld_ with Gus," she retorted, certain that's what he'd prefer anyhow. As soon as he disappeared from sight, she dropped her head to her desk where in the relative dark created by the pillow of her folded arms, she sought to steady her breathing and will the throbbing in her temples down to something manageable.

Why did he have to _be_ that way? It's not as if he hadn't made a decent point and if he'd just managed to conduct the rest of the conversation like an actual _adult_, maybe they could have come to some sort of compromise. They could have found a film to go to together and she would've just gone to see _Tinker_ on her own, even though a film like that begged a viewing companion with whom to hash things out afterward. But _noooo_… he had to go and make that stupid crack about Carlton and… and…

_Breathe…_

As she inhaled deeply, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee teased her nostrils and prompted her to lift her head, squinting at the assault of the bullpen fluorescents. First thing she noticed as her vision cleared was the fresh cup of coffee at the corner of her blotter, beside which rested a pair of Excedrin and a folded sheet of paper. Carlton, lounging in the chair alongside her desk and nursing his own mug of coffee, nudged the Excedrin closer.

"Sooner you take those, sooner your headache will settle down."

"I don't know how you knew, but bless you for knowing."

She snatched up the pills and washed them down with a slug of water from the bottle she habitually kept handy before picking up the mug, almost whimpering in gratitude as she took her first restorative sip. And once again, Carlton to the rescue. Not uncommon, given he tended to be more thoughtful with her than with most people—which was to say, thoughtful at all, since he didn't give a rat's ass for most people, but in the past few weeks, however, his thoughtful gestures had become an almost daily occurrence‚not to mention, more overt. Yes, the stereo had been kind of a big thing—and much appreciated, as was the hot toddy recipe and especially, the CD. While her subconscious was still busy with the nightly dreamworks, their tenor had changed, become calmer and more soothing, matching the mood of the music and allowing her to drift off feeling as if he was right there, his shoulder brushing against hers, a calm, solid presence. Maybe it should have worried her, that it was thoughts of her partner that soothed her to sleep, but she was so grateful to be sleeping at all, she wasn't inclined to question it too closely. She couldn't deny, though, that ever since that day, it seemed as if something had shifted in their day-to-day interactions—something small and subtle and extremely delicate. Something that, again, she wasn't inclined to question all that closely.

For now, she was just enjoying the appearance of coffee on her desk every morning, their out-of-station lunches at various off-the-beaten path locales, including the French bistro which had become a favorite for both of them, and when they did remain at the station, eating outside or at the very least, hiding out in a quiet spot where they could just catch their breath and regroup.

She smiled to herself as she recalled what had prompted their search for a quiet spot—Shawn, as usual. Showing up during their lunch break for no good reason, _as usual_. When a phone call had come in, necessitating her having to put down the extremely good turkey and Havarti on toasted sourdough that Carlton had brought in for them to share, Shawn had seen that as an open invitation. Occupied with placating the disgruntled citizen on the other line, she hadn't been able to do anything other than gesture angrily at him as he blithely picked up her _extremely_ good sandwich, clearly intent on finishing it off without so much as a by your leave, but before he could take so much as a nibble, his hands were empty, eyes wide with shock, and the sandwich back on her desk, intact, as Carlton glared at him, a warning hand resting lightly on his weapon.

After she'd finished the phone call, she'd escorted Shawn from the premises herself and upon returning discovered Carlton waiting for her, sandwiches and chips in hand, leaving her to grab their drinks and follow him down the stairs and through the warren of the lower level until they got to the Records room. As their older information was slowly converted to digital storage, Records didn't see much action, making it both quiet and given the old-fashioned wooden shelves and long tables set beneath the windows that ran along the upper perimeter of one wall, surprisingly serene.

The perfect place for undisturbed lunches.

"It's pretty easy to figure out when you have a headache, Juliet."

She felt a smile play about the corners of her mouth as she waited for him to make some crack about Shawn, but instead found it parting slightly as all he did was lean forward and press the pads of two fingers against one of her temples, rubbing a couple of gentle circles before leaning back in his chair.

Immediately, she felt the loss of that light touch, practically biting her tongue in an effort not to beg for more. Because damn, that had felt _nice_.

He smiled as he took a sip of his coffee. "You start rubbing at that spot, I start making certain I've got the Excedrin handy." Then his smile faded, his eyes taking on that slight gray cast—a sure sign he was concerned. "Seems as if I've been handing you a lot of Excedrin lately."

"You have."

Again, she waited for a crack about Shawn, surprised when none came. He'd really been good about that lately, she realized. It was as if he was doing his best not to allow Shawn to interfere in _their_ day-to-day interactions. Even when Shawn was being an ass during cases, he made it a point to draw him away and say what he needed to say to him away from her. It was a relief, really, to not have to be refereeing their once-constant sniping. Another one of those small changes.

"So what's this?" she asked, reaching for the folded sheet that had accompanied her coffee and Excedrin.

"A list of show times."

"Show times?" she parroted, unfolding the page and seeing that not only was it a list of show times, it was a list of show times for the various theaters around town showing _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy._

"My suggestion is for the Paramount," he said, one long finger pointing at the first theater on the list. "It's smaller, but they do serve wine, beer, and small plates. Tend to show the more… niche films." One of those dark, expressive eyebrows rose, but that was as far as he went toward slinging an obvious barb.

Juliet studied the list of theaters, noting that most of them were the types of multiplexes that would, yes, show _Underworld_ as well. The Paramount, on the other hand, was a Deco-era theater, impeccably restored and with only two screens, the other showing _The Descendents_, also, as Carlton had pointed out, a niche film. Basically, the Paramount was the kind of theater that showed intelligent films and was designed for people who wanted a quiet, old-fashioned evening out at the movies.

A grownup night.

All of which begged the question—

"Carlton, are you asking me to go to the movies—with you?"

Once upon a time she might have expected him to fidget or blush, or fumble for some explanation that he wanted to see the movie, too, and so long as they both did, it would be stupid if they didn't conserve gas and go together and it would be great to see those Commie bastards taken down and… and…

That was once upon a time.

Somehow—probably because of all those small, delicate changes—she wasn't at all surprised when his gaze met hers calmly and he replied with a simple, "Yes."

And maybe she should've been, but really, she wasn't at all surprised that her own response was a quietly pleased, "I'd love to."

His smile was slow and God help her, just a little wicked as that one eyebrow rose again, his eyes a deep, fathomless blue. "The Paramount?"

Juliet felt warmth and just a hint of that same wickedness start deep in her belly and slowly work its way out as she returned his smile—

And nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

* * *

><p>Juliet was dithering.<p>

She never dithered.

Babbled, yes, she'd freely cop to babbling, but she was _not_ a ditherer.

And yet…

Here she was. Dithering.

Hoop earrings or danglies? Full on makeup or work-level light dusting? Jeans or dress? Skirt or slacks?

_Dammit_.

The one thing about which she was absolutely certain was heels. No way was she going anywhere with Carlton without wearing heels of some sort. That was an Absolute.

But...

Boots or pumps?

Wedges or stilettos?

Platforms or peep toes?

Dammit, dammit, dammit, _dammit_.

Dressing for a movie date with Shawn was so much easier. Jeans, because that's what he'd be wearing. Ultra-casual, because the man either had to be cast in a soap opera or undercover to put on anything resembling a suit. Washable, because she would likely wind up with something sticky on her person somewhere. Not that sticky couldn't be pleasant when planned for and executed in private, but that had only been a couple of times. The others had occurred under considerably less private circumstances and had resulted in the ruin of a couple of her favorite outfits.

None of these things were an issue with Carlton, she knew. He wasn't a jeans sort of guy, so even her dressiest jeans would feel wrong, and while she was reasonably sure he had a t-shirt or two in his wardrobe, she would lay money none of them were screened with the Cocoa Puffs bird or Lucky Charms, nor would he dream of wearing a t-shirt, no matter how nice, to a theater like the Paramount.

At the same time, though, she had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't going to appear as normal workaday Carlton, clad in a sober suit and tie. While there was no way this was a date in the conventional sense—because of _course_ it wasn't, this was just two friends with a mutual interest out for a pleasant evening together—this was also very clearly not Carlton and Juliet at work.

Finally she settled on a sweater dress and boots, hoop earrings, makeup that was less than full-on but more than work, and her hair left loose around her shoulders.

And when she opened the door to Carlton's knock at precisely 7:15, she was glad she'd gone to the effort. She was also glad she'd taken a deep breath prior to opening the door because after?

_Holy crap._

From the polished shoes, to the charcoal gray slacks, to the black blazer that served to highlight all the silver in his hair, to the cobalt blue shirt, _two_ buttons left open, and that did things to his eyes that by all rights, should render them illegal weapons in most states—

No.

This was most assuredly _not_ workaday Carlton Lassiter.

"Hi," he finally said, and unless her scrambled brain cells were seriously misfiring, he sounded a little breathless himself. And as if on cue, that same heat from earlier this afternoon reappeared, low in her belly, making her feel loose and boneless and extremely glad she was hanging onto to the edge of the door.

"Hi."

His openly appreciative gaze took on the approximate hue of the deepest heart of a flame as he smiled and quietly said, "You look wonderful."

Her grip tightened on the door. "So do you."

For an instant, the Carlton she knew so well surfaced, in the slight blush and the way his gaze darted past her as he muttered, "Thanks."

That little bit of the Carlton she knew so well allowed her to catch her breath and restored some much needed equilibrium. At least enough for her to usher him through the door while she collected her small purse and keys. Side-by-side, they descended the stairs, Carlton automatically placing a hand beneath her elbow in a way that was steadying, rather than presumptuous. That same hand gently grasped her elbow and guided her toward his car when she automatically veered in the direction of hers and that's when she understood—this wasn't just different.

It was something she'd hoped for.

Not that she'd actually expected Shawn to buy a car, not _really_, but maybe, kind of, in a small little corner of her heart, she'd hoped, after that heartfelt declaration, that perhaps he'd follow through—

Okay, so yes, he had publicly declared his feelings for her in a big way.

Under the influence of a polygraph and the intimidating glower of the man beside her.

But the car thing—had he actually followed through with it—would have been far more powerful evidence of his feelings than a declaration, no matter how heartfelt.

As far as she knew, he'd never considered it past that day.

And so when they needed to go places, Juliet drove.

But not tonight.

And while she was often the passenger when in a car with Carlton, tonight, he made a point of holding the door for her—carefully closing it after making certain she was comfortably settled. Tonight, it was his personal car, rather than the Crown Vic—still immaculate and austere, but _his_.

Rather than the squawking of a police radio, there was music—jazz, she was surprised to note—and instead of reeking of stale coffee and guilty suspects, the interior of Carlton's car smelled clean and fresh. There was a hint of lemon oil, like the leather seats had just been polished and a faint whiff of an unfamiliar aftershave that put her in mind of sun and brisk sea breezes. Yet another reminder that this wasn't workaday Carlton.

Their conversation on the way to the theater hovered in some nebulous in between of the Carlton she knew so well, the Carlton who brought her lunches and coffee and CDs, and the Carlton who'd showed up on her doorstep tonight. To no great surprise, he'd read the entirety of LeCarré's _Karla_ trilogy and like many, found _Tinker_ to be a masterwork of the genre and a hell of a tough read. Also, all too believable, even now, years after the end of the Cold War, fairly convinced that there were high level spies from unfriendlies planted in key positions throughout their own government.

Rather than scoff or laugh it off as typical Lassiter paranoia, however, Juliet found herself listening and questioning and countering with the suggestion that their own government was surely guilty of the same thing, especially given their experiences with her brother. They bantered back and forth on the what's good for the goose is good for the gander theory without ever descending into sniping and by the time they arrived at the theater, she was exhilarated and more than a little charmed. As they approached the box office, she began to reach into her bag but stopped at Carlton's compelling and oh-so-blue glance as he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a sheet of paper that he exchanged for two tickets.

Well, then.

Well.

"Thank you."

"I _asked_ you," he reminded her as he guided them into their designated theater.

"Yes, but—" she began, then stopped, her breath suspended, at another one of those blue glances. This glance she knew all too well. This was the glance that stopped most perps mid-excuse because it brooked no argument. Her tall, quiet partner was making a point. What it was, exactly, she wasn't entirely sure, but maybe that wasn't so important right now. Maybe, she just needed to relax.

"Is this okay?" he asked, indicating a small booth about halfway up the theater.

"Perfect," she said, sliding in and sighing with pleasure as she sank into plush velvet. In keeping with the Paramount's old-fashioned ambience, the levels of seating were arranged in booths that could accommodate anywhere from two to eight people with high-backed banquettes circling small tables. Menus waited at each booth and servers in black slacks, crisp white shirts, and bowties circulated in the low light provided by the converted gas lamps, taking orders prior to the film's start.

"They have several good pale ales and stouts to choose from or wine, if you'd prefer."

Juliet studied Carlton as he perused the menu. "You come here a lot."

He nodded without raising his head, the low lights glinting off the gray scattered throughout the dark strands. A sudden urge to run a finger down the line of that silver-threaded sideburn and along his clean-shaven jaw momentarily possessed her, her hand trembling slightly with both the intensity of the urge and the effort it took to keep from indulging it.

Where had _that_ come from?

She folded her hands together, just in time, as he lifted his head and met her gaze, the dim lighting giving his eyes a deep blue cast she'd never before seen.

_This is what he'd look like in bed_.

The thought and the desire that shot through her in its wake was as sudden and intense as the urge to touch him had been, prompting to her to bite the inside of her cheek. _Hard_. And where had _that_ come from?

He was talking. Softly, as if in deference to their surroundings and prompting her to lean in a little closer, awareness rippling across her skin as she breathed in that warm sun and sea breeze scent.

"This is my favorite theater. Throwback to a bygone era. People were more dignified, civil." He laughed, a soft rumble that Juliet felt right through the velvet seats and that made her shiver. "Or at least, you can pretend they were. Fact is, people have always been heartless bastards. They just used to hide it beneath a prettier veneer. Still, it's nice to imagine."

Finally, she managed find her voice. "And you come… alone?"

His shrug said it all but before she could respond, he lifted the menu. "Any thoughts on what you'd like?"

After settling on a local brew and a sampler of appetizers, they sat back in their seats, not speaking, as they so often had on stakeouts and as always, comfortable with their silence. As the previews scrolled past, Carlton leaned in, offering comments as to which upcoming films looked interesting, always waiting to hear what she thought and she couldn't help but feel that he was taking notes, filing the information away, and that maybe, just maybe, there would be other movie nights in the near future.

She'd be lying if she didn't admit to hoping her suspicions were right.

And about halfway through the movie, the quiet intensity of the suspense growing, she found her hand brushing against his on the velvet seat, her skin warming and her heart racing as their fingers played a teasing game of cat-and-mouse, much like the characters on the screen until finally, she slid her hand completely over his, holding her breath as she waited to see how he'd react.

Blood rushed to her head and a fresh wave of heat washed over her as he turned his hand and threaded his fingers firmly with hers, sparing her one quick glance and a quiet, but undeniably pleased smile. Returning his attention to the action playing out on the screen, he sipped his beer as his thumb took up a slow, sensual rhythm across her skin. Unbidden, Juliet found herself closing the slight distance between them, enough so she could lean against him, sighing as her head instinctively found its perfect place against his shoulder.

As the credits rolled and the lights rose, so did the dreamlike fog in which Juliet had existed throughout the majority of the film. Slowly, she lifted her head and withdrew her hand from Carlton's, immediately feeling the loss of his warmth but knowing she couldn't be that close to him and think.

And she had to think.

Because she'd just experienced what was simultaneously the most relaxing and most exciting two hours of her entire life. Just sitting in this theater, watching a movie, and sipping a beer, all the most mundane of activities, she'd been struck with both calm as well as an electrifying sense of anticipation.

Most of all, it had felt unshakably, unspeakably, _right_.

Which had to be _wrong_, didn't it?

She didn't want to have to put Carlton in an uncomfortable position because her subconscious had clearly ridden completely off the rails and was manifesting itself in really nasty, horrible, taunting ways.

Not to mention there was Shawn—her _boyfriend_.

Oh, and yeah, Carlton happened to have a girlfriend, although come to think of it, he hadn't mentioned Marlowe in a while and she hadn't noticed him ducking out for visits like he used to. Plus, he _had_ held her hand and hadn't exactly objected to her head on his shoulder.

But still—Shawn. Boyfriend. Relationship. Presumably committed. She was being an idiot.

An idiot who'd have to apologize to Carlton, that was all there was to it.

But as she turned to say, she had no idea what the _hell_, exactly, he offered her his arm with a slow smile and a "Shall we?" Delivered in that low-pitched voice that she was beginning to realize had a way of turning her knees to tapioca and you know, that really left her with no option but to take that offered arm or risk pitching forward, ass-over-teakettle down the lushly carpeted steps.

And that simply wouldn't do.

They walked silently, her hand tucked companionably in the crook of his elbow, enjoying the textured feel of his jacket against her palm and further beneath, the solid warmth of his arm.

"There's a café near here that makes great desserts and a decent cup of coffee."

She was going to have to start wearing flats around the man if he was going to insist on using that voice.

"Sounds great." And hey, listen to her. She even managed to sound like an adult and not a lust-crazed teenager. Because, okay, she was woman enough to admit it. Somewhere along the line—_somehow_—her solid, bad-tempered, opinionated, forties and graying, terrible at most human interaction, trigger-happy partner had inspired in her a massive case of lust the likes of which she hadn't experienced in…

Hell, she couldn't remember.

And that was considering she'd experienced some serious lust in her time.

But she was a grown woman, dammit. She could conduct herself like an adult and not embarrass her poor friend and partner—_Part-Ner_, remember that, Miss I Don't Do Inter-Office Relationships?

With many deep breaths and a quick trip to the ladies room where she splashed some much-needed cold water on her face while Carlton placed their order, she was actually able to pull off acting like said adult. Even contributed intelligently enough to their rehash of the film except for those moments when Carlton grew animated, talking about how Smiley had begun piecing together the clues, his eyes lighting up as he gestured with those graceful, long-fingered hands. She grew so entranced, watching his smile and noticing how his deep-set eyes widened like an excited boy's, she very nearly forgot _who_ Smiley was. But all in all, she did okay.

She even did okay during the ride back to her apartment, keeping her hands in her lap and her head solidly against her headrest even though Carlton's shoulder looked so very inviting. And even though upon leaving his car she once again took his proffered arm and held onto it as they climbed the stairs she felt she was doing okay, holding it together despite the growing awareness with each step.

Oh, for God's sake—who, exactly, was she kidding?

Especially once they reached her door and he captured both her hands in his, turning her to face him.

Juliet looked up into his face, searching for something, anything, that would clue her in to what he might be thinking—feeling as if everything she was thinking was written across her in neon. Or at the very least, pheromones.

But damn him, for all his insistence that he was terrible at undercover work, he was nevertheless very, very good at keeping his innermost thoughts hidden. McNab had told her once that he considered Carlton nothing shy of a robot, possessed of an iron will.

She suspected—no, she _knew_—that iron will was at work here. But in what respect? And to what end?

"Carlton?"

"Juliet."

_Tapioca_.

"What's going on?"

"What do you think is going on?" Haloed by her security light, he gazed down at her, his eyes shifting between intense flame blue and the deep blue from the theater.

"I think—" She swallowed, knowing if she said it, everything would change. It was one thing to wonder in the dark of her bedroom and the wake of her dreams, but if she said it out loud, she'd no longer be able to feign ignorance. She'd have to step up and acknowledge what her subconscious had been nudging her to accept for a long while now.

And if she was wrong, she'd have to live with that, too.

Taking a deep breath, she looked down at their linked hands. "I think… you've been wooing me."

An owl hooted softly from a nearby tree—a noise which might have sounded mocking, but resonated more with a soothing note of reassurance.

"I kind of prefer to think of it as courting, but either one works."

Suddenly lightheaded, she closed her eyes.

"Juliet, look at me."

With some effort, she forced her eyes open, nearly swaying into him as she took in the expression on his face. On the slow, intent smile and the light in his eyes that combined with the shadows cast by the security light to turn him into something predatory and just a little dangerous.

"I'm going to kiss you now."

"Okay." Her hands found their way to his chest, sliding beneath his jacket to rest lightly against smooth, warm cotton, hinting at the warmer skin below.

His hands framed her face as he slowly lowered his head, pausing just before their mouths touched.

"By the way—" His breath was warm and scented with coffee and chocolate.

"Hm?" she practically whimpered, every nerve ending standing at attention with anticipation.

She felt rather than saw his smile.

"I wasn't asking permission."

And he kissed her.


	7. Chapter 7

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

* * *

><p>He'd kissed her.<p>

Carlton lay on his bed, staring up at the dark expanse of his bedroom ceiling.

He hadn't planned it that way. To his way of thinking , this campaign was still in its infancy. He'd figured he had another two, three weeks of lunches and small gestures before he could progress to suggesting they spend time together away from work. And then it would have probably been something more innocuous—that happened during daytime hours and in a bit more public setting. A movie, especially at a theater like the Paramount was just so damned intimate. But then he'd overheard her exchange with Spencer—and it wasn't as if he could completely blame the idiot for wanting to see _Underworld_. Of course, it was likely a ridiculous movie, but really, Kate Beckinsale in leather? No, he couldn't really blame him, except for the unforgivable sin of not listening to Juliet and what she wanted.

But when Juliet had shoved Spencer off the desk for making the crack about him something imperceptible shifted and to hell with the plan—he _had _to ask her out and there was no question about where he'd take her, provided she was amenable.

Nevertheless—it was still just a date. An extension of the small gestures and the lunches—a way by which he could show her what a date with an actual adult could be like.

_Be honest, Lassiter—that's been the key to this whole thing._

Okay, a way by which he could show her what a date with _him_ could be like. How _he_ was different.

How he was, away from work, away from being a detective, away from having to prove that he wasn't the idiot he so often felt like and invariably wound up looking like, no matter how hard he tried.

Away from being _Lassie_.

He'd known he could do it. What had surprised him was how easily it had come. The talking, the hand-holding, it had all come so easily and led so naturally to that moment outside her door when he, Carlton Lassiter, had smoothly and confidently kissed the ever-loving _hell_ out of Juliet O'Hara.

And it had been magnificent. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Her body soft and pliant against his, hands sliding up into his hair, her mouth—dear God, her _mouth—_fitting to his perfectly and when he finally let her up for air, gasping his name. His. The stuff dreams were made of.

And dreams of what could have followed were all he was going to have for the foreseeable future.

"Dammit."

Propping himself on an elbow, he punched the pillow with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, then flopped back against the mattress, head propped on his crossed arms as he resumed staring up at the ceiling.

It was his own fault. He could have had more. He could have had everything. But it wasn't time yet. By his own admission, he was courting and courting required following certain rules. First rule being don't take advantage of a woman. There was no doubt in his mind that he could have followed that kiss to its logical conclusion and made love to Juliet and he knew it would've been every bit as magnificent as that kiss. But wrapped in that knowledge was the absolute certainty that she would've regretted it the minute it was over. She was a good person, was his Juliet. And he _knew_ she would hate herself for cheating on Spencer and that guilt would eat her up and ruin what was growing between them.

Part of executing a successful campaign was knowing when to advance and when to retreat. And while Carlton wasn't above exploiting their mutual attraction in the name of advancement, he would only do so up to a point.

He could wind up with pneumonia from all the cold showers for all he cared, but he would _not_ make love to Juliet until they could both do so with a clear conscience and no regrets.

He was playing for keeps here.

So with one final lingering kiss he'd left her at her door with nothing more than an "I'll talk to you soon," and a silent promise to give her space. Painful as hell, but the right move. Juliet was as analytical in her own way as he was and would want to break down what had just happened. He could almost imagine her lying in bed—and dammit, that was all too easy since he'd been in her bedroom—maybe having a toddy, listening to the CD _he'd_ made her, on the stereo _he'd_ given her, and she'd begin piecing together the clues.

As to what would happen after that?

Well, he'd just have to wait and see how the next battle unfolded wouldn't he? In the meantime, he had the memory of a truly spectacular kiss to hold close as he drifted off to sleep.

He blinked up into the dark.

Or not.

Body tight and aching, he threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

><p>The next afternoon, Carlton sat on his sofa, the case files from the homicide, possible domestic abuse case, spread across his coffee table, and a barely-touched beer on the end table beside him. He and Juliet both knew there was something hinky about this case, they just hadn't quite put their finger on it yet and it was bothering the hell out of him. The memory of that little girl, Emily, crying for her mother while clinging to her father—it just set every kill instinct he had on high alert—especially since he had a <em>bad<em> feeling about the father. The victim's autopsy had revealed evidence of a lot of old injuries—enough that even Woody had been rendered unusually somber—and of course the son of a bitch husband claimed innocence. They all did. Even after they were caught and presented with irrefutable evidence of their cowardice.

Because that's what they were, those scum-sucking bastard abusers—cowards.

And he _hated_ that they hadn't been able to find the evidence to pin this on the father, yet, because with every minute that little girl spent with him, it put her one minute closer to becoming a victim herself and he was _damned_ if he'd allow that to happen.

Truth was, too, in a stunningly selfish admission, he had to admit that studying the case files was also serving as a much-needed distraction. He'd been making more of an effort not to bring work home with him, but after last night, and then this morning, running into Guster at the grocery store, cheerfully reporting that Shawn and Juliet were on a date, he needed a distraction.

Not that this wasn't what he'd expected. Sure, maybe part of him had _hoped_ she'd show up this morning and fall into his arms—he was human and damn, he wanted her _so_ much—but he knew Juliet better than that. She was going to weigh options and consider and above all, she would be fair.

And in the interests of remaining scrupulously honest, he also knew himself well enough to know that had Juliet shown up on his doorstep, he wouldn't have trusted it.

_Too soon. Too soon. Too goddamned soon._

It was his own frickin' personal mantra.

Beside the beer bottle, his phone buzzed with a text alert.

Glancing at the screen, his heart skipped a beat as he saw it was from Juliet.

_Can I see you?_

He picked up both phone and beer, taking a meditative sip as he studied the screen and debated what to do.

There was the simple response: Yes. Okay, the simple response was actually _d'uh_, but yes was more civilized and adult.

There was the more complicated response of No. Not what he wanted, because of _course_ he wanted to see her, but was it wise at this point? He'd promised to give her space—he knew she _needed_ space. Besides, wasn't she out on a date with Spencer?

Which brought him to the even more complicated response of no response at all. He could remain silent and feign ignorance with some lame-ass excuse about having his phone turned off if she even asked him about it, except she'd read that like the lie it was. She knew he always had his phone nearby and turned on—always prepared to be called in. Especially important since he'd given up having the police scanner at home.

After taking another sip of beer, he set the bottle aside and with hands that shook only slightly, typed in his response:

_If you like._

Less than ten seconds later, _Yes, please,_ flashed across his screen. Good thing, too, since he wasn't sure he'd drawn a breath since he hit the Send key.

Calmer, now, he typed in _Where and when? _Resisting the urge to follow it up with asking if she was okay and wondering what in hell had happened with Spencer.

His phone vibrated again.

_Botanic Gardens in an hour?_

_I'll be there. _

He stared at the screen, debating, and finally quickly typed, _Do you need anything?_

The phone buzzed almost immediately and the screen lit up and his heart not only skipped a beat, it skipped several damned measures' worth as he read her response.

Rubbed his eyes, then read it again. And again.

And each time, it was the same.

_Just you._


	8. Chapter 8

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

This chapter's for Loafer—a little off the rails, a little unexpected, just your cuppa. Happy Birthday, my friend!

* * *

><p>Carlton pulled into the Botanic Gardens parking lot ten minutes early, only slightly surprised to discover Juliet's lime green VW Bug already occupying a space near the entrance. Parking a few spots down, he paid his admission, refused the three different wheedling offers to join a guided tour with increasingly irritated growls, and impatiently snatched the map from the starting-to-look-terrified volunteer. Entering the gardens, he immediately spotted her sitting on a stone bench, looking so damned pretty in her faded jeans and lavender sweater—a color he loved on her because of the hints of violet it added to her eyes—her hair in a ponytail, and a slight smile playing about her lips. In spite of his worry and irritation, he couldn't help but respond to that smile with a wry grin of his own. Still though, something wasn't quite right—he could sense it in that way he was beginning to sense everything important about her.<p>

"You really didn't need to be quite that impatient, you know."

"I didn't draw my weapon. Hell, I didn't even threaten to write him up just for being an obsequious little twerp."

"Carlton—" She crossed her arms and fixed him with a critical stare. "Please tell me you didn't bring your weapon."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes as he settled on the bench beside her. "Of course I didn't."

"There's no 'of course' about it," she snapped. "Once upon a time, you would have had no fewer than two weapons on your person at all times."

"That was once upon a time," he replied mildly, staring off into the distance and trying to shake off the surprising sting her rebuke had delivered.

A moment later, the sting disappeared, washed away by her deep sigh and subsequent, "I'm sorry. That was kind of bitchy and uncalled for."

He kept his gaze resolutely focused on the foothills surrounding the gardens. "It's not as if you're wrong."

Another sigh escaped. "Yeah, but I know you've been making an effort to change."

"True, but generally the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior," he countered, understanding they were no longer simply talking about him. He shifted on the bench, giving into temptation and brushing back the wisp of hair teasing her cheek. "What's going on?"

Little shockwaves traveled from his hand straight to his throat as she turned her head and pressed a brief kiss to his palm. "Let's walk?"

Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nodded and rose, falling into step beside her as she headed off down a trail, clearly familiar with the garden's layout.

After silently walking several yards down a meandering path lined with wildflowers she finally said, "Thanks for meeting me here."

"You're welcome."

"I wasn't sure you would." Her sidelong glance was loaded with apology as she added, "You don't seem like a garden sort of guy."

He shrugged. "I'm really not." He'd never really seen the point of wandering aimlessly through terrain where the most you could do was take pictures.

"I love coming here," she said softly. "Especially after particularly brutal cases. It's just so quiet and beautiful and so far removed from the ugliness we deal with."

Carlton took the surroundings in as they walked, seeing it through the scrim of Juliet's confession. Nestled as it was in Mission Canyon, embraced by the Santa Ynez mountains in one direction and open to a sweeping ocean view in another, it did seem like its own self-contained world. Not unlike being trapped within a snow globe, he imagined, especially once they followed the trail into a heavily wooded area, the only sounds those of their footsteps and the creek rushing alongside the path.

The further they walked, the more Carlton felt a certain measure of peace overtake him, even as his concern for Juliet remained, the nagging voice of his instincts urging him to find out what the hell was wrong. But he forced his impatience down, knowing—or at least hoping—she'd tell him what was troubling her. At the very least he could sense the agitation that had cloaked her with a faintly miserable air beginning to dissipate and with it, his worry that it had somehow been his fault.

Juliet finally came to a stop in a clearing by a small waterfall, settling onto a large, flat rock and with a silent glance, asking him to join her. Settling beside her, he rested his elbows on his knees and breathed deep of the damp, loamy air.

"I can see why you love it," he finally said, careful to keep his voice low in deference to their surroundings. "It gives you hope, doesn't it?"

A faint note of surprised colored her voice as she asked, "What makes you say that?"

Faintly uncomfortable with the fact that he'd actually aired his observation he attempted a redirect with, "Doesn't it?"

"It does," she admitted, "but—"

"Renewal," he broke in, knowing her well enough to know she'd badger him until he confessed. "Not just in a seasonal sense, but the type that occurs in the wake of destruction." He met her wide-eyed gaze with his own, wrestling with the terrifying sense of exposure. Because if he couldn't open up enough to let her see him—truly _see_ him—then he needed to raise the white goddamned flag and retreat now.

"This area was hit pretty hard by the Jesusita," he said, referring to the devastating fire that had swept the county a few years earlier and the remnants of which he'd noticed as they walked, in the scarred tree trunks and places where growth seemed newer. "And yet," he continued softly with a glance at their surroundings, "it comes back. Beauty rising out of the ashes, as it were."

He started to tug at his collar, to get some air to his skin, but found his hand captured in Juliet's as she lifted it to her lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the back.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her breath a faint caress that conveyed even more beyond those two words.

"What happened with Spencer?"

"Nothing." She sighed and lifted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes clear and in the shadows of the clearing, a deep midnight blue. "I swear, Carlton, nothing bad happened." Her free hand rose to gently rub between his eyebrows, making him realize he must have been frowning. Hell, it was practically an automated response when it came to Spencer. A reluctant grin tugged at the edges of his mouth as he took a breath and made an effort to relax, prompting a brief smile from Juliet and a near-overwhelming desire to kiss her from him. Definitely not the right moment, no matter what his hormones were screaming about there never being a _wrong_ moment when it came to Juliet.

"We were on a date," she admitted almost apologetically.

"I know." As her brows rose, he clarified, "I ran into Guster this morning. It's okay, you know," he reassured her. "I know he comes first."

_For now_, he added silently.

She shook her head wonderingly. "Who are you and what have you done with Carlton Lassiter?"

A chuckle escaped. "We'll talk about that later." Clearly, she'd been putting together the clues. "So you were on a date," he prompted, not all that crazy to hear about it, but understanding it was important to why it was him and not Spencer sitting here with her in this beautiful and yeah, romantic, setting.

"Shawn surprised me by taking me to one of the local vineyards for a wine tasting. Said he wanted to make up for the one during our weekend getaway."

"The one that was ruined when you guys found the body." So the idiot was finally catching a clue. This wouldn't exactly be boding well except—Juliet here, with him, not Spencer.

"No," she responded, her tone dry, "The one that was ruined because the only reason we were even there was because Shawn wanted to tail Clive and Barbie." She grimaced. "The _only_ reason we did anything I wanted during that weekend was under a guise of deception because Shawn was more concerned with figuring out who stole his damned DS. And then, of course, with our stupid luck, we wind up stumbling onto a homicide."

Juliet's hand tightened around his as he sighed. "The real surprise is that he realized how he might have hurt my feelings. After the fiasco with Frank, I wasn't sure he'd—"

This time it was Carlton who tightened his hand around hers as she sighed. "So what happened?" he asked again, even more certain that something _had_.

"Nothing." Same answer as before, but given the restless motion of her fingers against his, he got that he was about to hear what lay behind the "nothing."

"It started out well enough. He even borrowed Henry's truck so he could drive and he'd actually chosen a fascinating program, where we were going to actually learn about how to taste a flight of wines. We listened and we tasted, but then when the instructor was explaining about spitting, Shawn ran to the fountain in the courtyard and struck a pose like a cherub and—"

"Spit," Carlton finished, all too easily imagining the scene. "Asshat," he muttered, completely unable to help himself and not in the slightest bit sorry he'd said it.

"Not really."

A familiar sense of defeat began to overtake him at her soft rebuttal. Goddamn it, she'd already forgiven the jackass. Yet as he shoved a frustrated hand through his hair, she sighed again.

"The sad part is, Carlton, he was trying. Shawn did this because it was something I wanted to do but when it came down to it, he couldn't help but make it about himself. He couldn't see past his own boredom and lack of understanding."

Aw, crap. He was about to defend the son of a bitch. "It's part of the ADHD, Juliet. You know that."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, obviously as shocked by Carlton's defense of her idiot boyfriend as he was. "Yeah, but he's also an adult. He could make the choice to do something about the ADHD that would allow him to function within the bounds of acceptable behavior." An angry rush of breath escaped as she added, "But he doesn't."

"Why should he?" Carlton shrugged, his thumb playing across Juliet's soft, soft skin, dying to do more, but they had to get through this first. "When his actions outside those bounds have garnered him so much?"

Her voice was nearly lost in the rush of water from the falls as she quietly asked, "Like me?"

He couldn't answer. Not without sounding like a complete dick. So he settled for simply kissing the top of her head, now resting against his shoulder, where it seemed to naturally gravitate. No complaints from him. The way she fit so perfectly against him, his shoulder felt as if it had been constructed for nothing more than to offer support to Juliet.

"Why now, Carlton?"

And so the conversation took the turn he'd half expected to encounter from the moment he received her text.

Moment of truth time.

"Because _I_ made a choice."

"You've made this choice before," she said softly, her implication clear.

"No." He stared, mesmerized, at the water spilling from the falls. "Not like this."

"How is this different?"

Much as he hated to, he gently pushed her away from him and stood. He'd known they'd have to have this conversation and he'd thought long and hard about what to say and how to say it. With any luck, he could say it all without descending into some typically stupid Lassie-like moment, that unique combination of arrogance and bluster designed to hide all the fear and insecurity that he was less than half a step shy from irrevocably screwing everything up.

"I was hurt before," he started slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on Juliet's face. "Don't get me wrong—I had genuine affection for Lucinda—liked her a great deal, really, but the hard truth is, she happened to be there at a time I really needed someone." Dammit, he wasn't man enough to maintain a connection with that searching blue gaze. Not when all he wanted to do was grab her hand and disappear into the woods that felt like some sort of mystical fairyland that would shelter and protect them, and allow them never to be heard from again.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his khakis and wandered to the creek's edge. Turning his head slightly so his voice would carry back he continued.

"What really makes what happened with her different, though, is that I was arrogant. I thought I was above the rules, Juliet. That the consequences couldn't touch me. But I know better now."

"And yet—"

He compressed his lips, breathing steadily through his nose and trying to settle his stomach because this was it— Slowly and carefully he said, "The consequences—and trust me, in this case, I'd make sure _I_ was the one taking them—" He took another shaky breath and hell with it, he didn't care that his voice shook as he admitted, "They're worth it to me."

He closed his eyes as he felt the touch of her hands, first at his waist, then creeping up his chest as the soft warmth of her fit itself against his back and damn, if she didn't fit as perfectly this way as well. But as wonderful as she felt, he needed more. Turning in the circle of her arms, he lowered his head, meeting her already upraised mouth with his.

_Jesus Christ._

He shouldn't.

They shouldn't.

But he had to. She was there and in his arms and he _had_ to.

If their kiss the night before had been one of discovery and exploration, this one was of acceptance and heat and at least for Carlton, the passion that had slowly been building over the course of the past seven years. It was holding Juliet close with one arm as he freed her hair from the ponytail, tangling his fingers in the soft blonde strands. It was reacquainting himself with the unique contours of her mouth, tracing her lips and the edges of her teeth with his tongue and tasting the sweetly acid remnants of the wine she'd drunk, feeling a little drunk himself.

It was letting her tug him back toward their rock, kissing all the while, and gratefully sinking down since he was damned if his knees could support him any longer. Feeling her hands forge a path from his hair, down his neck and across his shoulders before fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, managing to undo enough for her to slip her hand inside against his chest and making him gasp with shock and renewed desire. With her mouth busy trailing light kisses along his throat his hands found their way beneath her sweater, feeling the taut expanse of her stomach before sliding around to the smooth length of her back. But just as his fingers reached her bra, voices penetrated through the thick fog of lust, making him pull her close against him, his hands now safely on the outside of her sweater, stroking her back again, this time in an effort to soothe her almost violent trembling as a small group passed by on the path above them.

"God, Carlton," she whispered, her voice muffled against the front of his shirt.

"I'm sorry." One hand stroked her back, the other her hair as God help him, he pressed kisses to the soft, sunshine and peach-scented strands, half for her comfort, half for his own. "I'm so sorry, Juliet, I didn't mean for this to happen—not like this."

She pulled back, her color high, her pupils almost dangerously dilated. "Then how?"

"More… wooing—courting." Breathless still, he fumbled for the words. "More showing you who I really am. I wanted to do this right."

Closing his eyes, he was horribly afraid he'd just done everything wrong.

"Felt pretty damned right to me." Her shaky laugh had his eyes snapping wide open. She pulled back, shoving her hands through her tangled hair and despite the sound of even more approaching voices on the path, all he could think of was pinning her against the rock and having his way with her.

"What now?" he asked, almost helplessly. Holy crap, he had absolutely no blueprint or plan for this particular battle. No contingency predicated on this turn of events.

She surprised him by leaning forward and kissing him again—sweeter, slower, with the unmistakable feel of having all the time in the world.

"Can we do more of this?" she whispered against his mouth. "Preferably somewhere there's not a rock?"

Now… _now_, he felt himself on firmer footing. Not that he wouldn't enjoy this kiss for a few moments longer, but the pieces were falling into place and he knew what he had to do. Even though, God help him, it was gonna _suck_.

They kissed, long, lingering caresses until he felt her hands begin to wander back to his shirt again. Capturing her hands in his, he kept them in a firm hold and pulled back just far enough to look into her gloriously flushed features. That glazed look in her eyes? He'd put that there and he wasn't above feeling just a little bit of pride over that.

"Believe me, Juliet, when I say I want to do more of this—and a whole lot more—"

The glazed expression slowly cleared as a rueful, accepting smile turned up the corners of her mouth. And the slight swelling of her lips and their deep pink color and the abrasion around the surrounding skin? Yeah, he'd done that, too, and no, he wouldn't feel in the slightest bit embarrassed by it.

"The last two days have been amazing, but they've also been fueled in part by some sort of incident with Spencer."

She cringed. "I don't want you to feel used, Carlton—please believe me when I say that's not my intention at all."

A hint of his typical impatience crept into his voice as he snapped, "Oh, for God's sake, I know that."

Thankfully, she didn't seem to take offense and in fact, looked slightly reassured before a frown drew her brows together.

"I don't know what to do about Shawn, though." She pulled her hands free and wrapped her arms around herself. "Even before… you and… us, I was having some seriously conflicted feelings about him. Aggravated that he couldn't ever seem to compromise, angry that when he ostensibly tried to compromise, he could never fully commit, guilty that maybe I was expecting too much, angry that what was normal for any other relationship should be reduced to expecting too much, and…" She bit her lip. "More and more, comparing him to you and—"

Carlton caught his breath at the expression in her eyes, a heartbreaking combination of guilt and defiance.

"And more and more, he kept coming up short." Her eyes took on a translucent ocean-blue hue as a single tear escaped. "You don't like change. You're supposed to be so stiff and unyielding. You don't even _like_ gardens," she whispered. "But you came here, without question, for me. And you opened yourself enough to get why it was important."

Once again, Carlton found himself at a loss for words, mostly because anything he could possibly say would inadvertently paint Spencer in a negative light. He'd done that well enough for himself, Carlton figured—no need to rub it in, no matter how good it might feel. In lieu of saying anything, he settled for leaning forward and carefully pressing his lips to the tear, tasting salt and a wealth of regret as well as the promise of renewal.

Fanciful stuff for a guy like him—the sort of crap he might have once scoffed at—but that was the effect she had on him. She made him believe in fanciful and the impossible.

Juliet made Carlton believe.

She made him believe he was on the verge of winning the war, but the tactician in him understood, too—this final battle his Juliet would have to fight on her own.


	9. Chapter 9

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

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><p>Sunday night, Juliet lay on her side, staring into the dark as music from Carlton's CD drifted from the speakers. She hadn't spoken to him since they'd parted at the Gardens the day before, by mutual decision. She hadn't spoken to Shawn either, after texting to tell him she'd be busy all day catching up on paperwork and wouldn't be able to see him.<p>

She knew which man she was missing more, stupid mutual decision be damned. Grabbing her phone, she hit a key before she could chicken out.

He picked up before the first ring died out. "I thought we decided we needed some breathing room." But he didn't sound upset or aggravated. If anything, that smooth, low voice sounded pleased. And damned sexy. How many times had she talked to him on the phone and never _once _made note of how seductive his voice could be?

Then again, how many times had she talked to him while lying in bed in the dark?

"I've been breathing," she protested. "I'm lightheaded from all the damned breathing."

His soft laugh vibrated through the phone, reaching across the few miles separating them and making her feel as if he was right there with her. The sheer _want_ hit her like a physical pain. She wanted him. Right there with her. Not just because she wanted to make love to him, even though, d'uh, of _course_ she did, she was human and she wanted him so bad, she'd resorted to desperate measures earlier today. Twice. But just as much, she wanted him lying beside her. She wanted to be facing him, their hands clasped together, and looking into his eyes as they talked about any and everything.

"I missed you," she confessed softly, aching with the desire to just _be_ with him.

"I missed you, too." She heard his soft sigh and imagined he was probably running his hand through his hair. "Had to stop myself a half-dozen times from driving over to your place today. It probably sounds ridiculous, given what I've been doing, but I _am_ trying to be fair, here."

"What you've been doing? You mean the courting?"

"I think we're beyond courting at this point." His voice was dry and now she could imagine the half-smile playing about his sharply-etched lips. "But yeah, courting, wooing, the fact that I very deliberately set out to seduce a woman away from another man. 'Fair' didn't exactly factor into any of my plans."

"But now?"

He sighed again and the sound sent a little shiver down Juliet's spine. "Whatever you decide, I _need_ you to be absolutely sure. That's why I'm trying to be fair. To give you space."

She heard what he'd left unsaid—if she chose him, that would be it. Carlton had had his share of flings in the years she'd known him, but he wasn't built for them for the long haul. He was the sort of man who thrived within a long-term relationship. Their partnership had shown her that. If only she'd been smart enough to see what else it was showing her.

Then again, she hadn't been ready to see. Ironically, it had taken being with Shawn to open her eyes. But she understood what Carlton meant by fair. Shawn needed to know he had competition, or at the very least, that _she_ had doubts, if only to see how he would react.

That was as fair as she was willing to be. And she had a feeling she knew how it was going to go, but in the interests of all the parties involved, she had to allow the end game to play out to its logical conclusion.

But later. She'd deal with it all later. Tonight was for hushed conversations in the dark.

"Carlton," she whispered.

"Dear God." His voice sounded a distant and a little more high-pitched than usual.

"Yeah, me too."

"Do you have any idea how many cold showers I've taken in the last month?"

"Well," she drawled slowly, ever-so-slightly flirtatiously, "there's another option, you know."

"What makes you think I haven't resorted to that as well?"

Heat flared, making her limbs feel thick and heavy and tingly with awareness. "You're not the only one."

Through the phone she heard a low, repeated _thunk_. "Carlton?"

"Don't mind me. I'm just slamming my head against the headboard in an effort to distract myself from the image you just irrevocably burned into my brain." Another _thunk_, this one a little louder, was followed by a muffled curse. "Dammit, cold showers suck, O'Hara, you know that?"

The sheet twisted in her fist she recklessly threw out, "You don't have to resort to another shower." Phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, she frantically rooted around her nightstand, trying to recall where she'd left her car keys.

"Baby, please, _stop_."

The unexpected endearment coupled with the sheer desperation in his voice to make her relax her stranglehold on the sheet and relax back into her pillows, attempting to wrestle her heart, not to mention, her libido, back under control.

After several seconds of charged silence he released a long, heartfelt breath and very quietly said, "I wonder what sort of long-term effects cold showers can have on a man my age."

_Not many from the sound of it_.

But in the interests of keeping him from fracturing his skull, she kept that observation to herself.

* * *

><p>"Yes."<p>

"Oh_, yes—_" she repeated, closing her eyes briefly and breathing deep with the effort to keep from shouting. Screw it—this deserved a shout.

"Carlton!"

His startled gaze met hers as she approached his desk and thrust the folder she'd just been reading at him. "We've got it."

He took the folder but held her gaze. "Got what?"

"The missing piece." She tapped the folder, barely able to contain her glee. "At least, _a_ missing piece."

"The Robicheaux case?" At her nod, his eyes widened in a way that made her heart climb into her throat with the sheer impact. Thank God he chose that precise moment to open the folder and peruse its contents, otherwise, she would've been getting a hell of a talking to from Chief Vick. She was fairly certain there were regulations against doing illicit things to the Head Detective on his desk during working hours.

"Holy crap," he breathed, then looked up, his eyes turned a fierce glacier blue. "Holy _crap_," he repeated.

_Tapioca._

"I know." She sank into the chair beside his desk. "I know we expected something definitive from the DNA report, but not something like this." _This_ being that genetic material recovered from beneath Jennifer Robicheaux's nails revealed a match to her husband's, as expected—what was not expected was that it wasn't an exact match.

"But Emily is John Robicheaux's only child," Carlton muttered as he reached for the primary case file and skimmed the contents.

"That we know of," she pointed out. "And the DNA recovered was definitively male." Juliet watched as Carlton leaned back in his chair, a toothpick moving meditatively from side to side in his mouth as he stared off into the distance, thinking, putting the pieces together in different combinations, trying to find the perfect fit.

She loved this side of him, the detective who was so damned good at his job but was so often overshadowed.

She—

"We need to talk to Woody," he said, breaking into her thoughts. "And then we need to go talk to John Robicheaux again. The more we uncover in this case, the hinkier it gets."

"My thoughts exactly." She collected the files as he donned his suit jacket and grabbed his keys. With a subtle touch to her back, he guided her from the bullpen, pausing in the deserted stairwell. In the shadowy light his deep-set eyes took on shades of the deep blue that haunted her fantasies.

"Dinner tonight?"

She nodded.

A crooked smile turned up one side of his mouth. "Somewhere really public, because we're back to courting, and frankly, I don't trust myself to be alone with you."

Her heart ricocheted around her chest at the naked desire in his voice. God help her, if he pressed her up against the wall right now, she'd let him do any damned thing he wanted, to hell with their jobs or professional reputations. The fact that he wasn't—that he was so clearly holding back with considerable effort—was so counterintuitive to the Carlton Lassiter she knew so well, she found herself blurting out, "Why aren't you pressuring me?"

He paused with one foot on the next flight of steps and looked back up at her. "You mean about Spencer?"

"Yeah."

She watched as he clearly wrestled with how to answer—how much of himself to reveal. And marveled that she could so easily read not only the conflict but its source. Half the time, she never knew what Shawn was thinking and close to ninety percent of the time, had no idea what the hell motivated his actions. Not so with her partner.

"Because it's never been just about me and what I want," he said, his hushed voice vibrating across her skin. "I told you last night—I need _you_ to be absolutely sure. And that includes when and how you tell Spencer about us." He briefly closed his eyes and when he opened them, a clear and distinct pain clouded the blue depths. "If you even choose to."

As Carlton spoke, Juliet's hand slowly reached for his. There he was—heart and soul laid out wide open and vulnerable for her to do with what she chose.

"Are _you_ sure, Carlton?"

Again that crooked half-smiled crossed his face.

"I would've never had the guts to even try if I wasn't."


	10. Chapter 10

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

* * *

><p>"You've got to be kidding me—a secret <em>baby<em>?" Shawn's voice was incredulous.

"Two of them, technically," Juliet responded, half-absent mindedly, attention focused on her screen as she keyed in more details for the case that had gotten even more complicated than anyone could have ever imagined. A story with nearly three decades' worth of secrets and deceptions.

"John Robicheaux never knew he had a son. He was only sixteen when his parents discovered he was having an affair with an older girl in the French village they lived in. His mother's from Santa Barbara, so they shipped him here to live with his grandparents and finish school while they paid the girl to cut off all contact. And paid her off again when she came to them and said she was pregnant."

"And the son turned out to be the murderer?"

"Yeah, he was just a little bitter about the circumstances under which he grew up. Wanted to punish his father."

"By murdering Daddy's wife?" The sound of crunching made Juliet realize that she'd left the tortilla chips she'd been snacking on in lieu of lunch in plain sight. Oh well. There was dinner with Carlton to look forward to—albeit three days late, since this case had picked up steam once the DNA evidence had come to light and they'd worked eighteen hour days to track down the son of a bitch. "Doesn't make sense."

"That's because murdering Jennifer Robicheaux wasn't the original objective. _That_ was a crime of passion."

"Well that adds a twist, doesn't it?" Leave it to Shawn to become interested in the case after they'd discovered the anomalies. Pity they'd already solved it, she thought, somewhat cattily.

"So Sonny Boy was one secret baby. You said there were two."

Juliet gritted her teeth, knowing he wouldn't stop with the questions until he got the entire story. If not from her, then from Carlton. As exhausted as he was because of the case not to mention tense because of the lack of resolution with their personal situation, if Shawn came after Carlton with his boundless Irish Setter energy and accompanying lack of tact, he was likely to be Woody's next victim.

"Okay, look, Reader's Digest version: Marc, John's son, became a grifter—a good one, eventually working his way across Europe to the U.S. where he hooked up with a young lady by the name of Jennifer. They'd target wealthy older men, widowers, mostly. She'd get involved with them, get their personal information, they'd take off with nice chunks of money."

"All a prelude to getting back at Daddy," Shawn guessed, crunching into another tortilla chip and drowning out the audible growling of Juliet's stomach. The sooner she finished the story, the sooner she could go search out another bag of chips.

"Right. But that's also where the plan went south. Jennifer had no idea John was Marc's birth father, she just thought he was another mark. But maybe it was because she saw in him everything that was lacking in Marc, she broke the grifter code. She fell in love and they got married."

"Okay, so where does the second secret baby come in?" Done with the chips, Shawn began rooting around in her bottom desk drawer where he knew she kept her secret stash of M&Ms. Oh, the _hell_ he would. Grabbing the ruler from her desk, she rapped the back of his hand hard enough to make him snatch it back with an injured "Hey!" as she slammed the drawer shut.

"I've told you before, Shawn—the M&Ms are off-limits."

"But Jules," he wheedled, "we share everything."

_Not hardly. _"You don't share your food."

"That's because you don't like most of what I eat."

She huffed out an impatient breath. "Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?"

"Can I have some M&Ms? And maybe a kiss to make it better?" He held out his reddened hand and tilted his head in a way that she generally found charming. Even now, amidst the annoyance she could recognize the charm. Rather than find it engaging, though, it just sort of left her weary.

"Fine." She yanked open the drawer and grabbed the bag, dropping it in his lap.

He waved his hand and smiled. "No kiss?" And for the first time, she noticed an air of uncertainty about him. Like he was finally getting that all was not right between them.

"Shawn—" The hell with the case. Maybe now was the time to tell him if not about Carlton, specifically, because _who_ was none of his damned business, then at least that someone else was in the picture. And it was serious.

"Forget it—I know how you are about behavior in the workplace." He grinned and settled back in his chair, clearly happy enough with the M&Ms. "So, second secret baby."

_Dammit_.

He picked _now_ to develop a sense of bounds and propriety? But he was right. In his usual inadvertent, totally stumbled upon it sort of way, he was right. Never mind that for once, he had no idea how right he was. This was definitely _not_ the time or place for this discussion. But it had to be soon.

"Jennifer was already pregnant when she and John got married. But John knew from the outset Emily wasn't his because he can't have kids."

"What?" Shawn's voice was confused. "But what about Marky-Marc and his Not So Funky Bunch?"

Juliet grinned briefly in spite of herself. "John contracted mumps in his early twenties. Couldn't have kids afterward. Jennifer told him from the outset the baby's father was out of the picture and that was good enough for John. He's simply always considered Emily his."

"Man, this is bent," Shawn muttered around a mouthful of chocolate and pretzel. "Dude ends up raising his granddaughter as his daughter and doesn't even know."

"Yeah, and you _still _don't know the half of it. We knew the injuries Jennifer's autopsy revealed were old ones—we just assumed that they were from John and that maybe he'd quit beating her because of her pregnancy. Obviously, that's where we were seriously off base."

"Marc?" Shawn guessed to which she nodded, sad for the young woman who certainly hadn't been innocent, but had definitely been a victim and had tried, in her way, to make things right.

"Between discovering she was pregnant and falling in love with John, that gave her the strength to do something about Marc. She called in an anonymous tip on one of their old grifts in another state and got him arrested. She figured that way, he wouldn't be able to hurt her or the baby—not that she'd told him about Emily."

"So let me guess the rest," Shawn began, hand to forehead, prompting in Juliet an intense desire to just smack the hell out of him. The case was _over_. She and Carlton had solved it. They didn't need his stupid finger tricks.

"Marc broke out of whatever prison he was in, made his way back to Santa Barbara, and when he realized that Daddy had once again taken something he felt was rightfully his, lost control."

"Doesn't take a psychic to figure that out, Shawn," she snapped, unable to keep the acid from her voice.

"Ouch, Jules." Clutching his chest, Shawn put on one of his mock-hurt expressions, yet once again, a hint of uneasiness flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes before he grinned, the uneasiness sliding behind his usual _joie de vivre_. "Still—shame you didn't call me in. It might not have dragged on so long."

"Oh really?" She stared at him through a faint haze of red, her nails digging into her desk's wood surface. "If we'd even _tried_ to call you in, you likely would have dismissed the case as beneath Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective. It was too routine, too ordinary, too _boring_. And you know what? That's okay. Carlton and I didn't need you. We worked the case the way we've been trained to do and we solved it and in the end, what does it matter how long it took?" Her voice shook with anger and the remembered horror of what might have happened to Emily, had she not been on an outing with John at the time of her mother's murder.

"It can't bring that little girl's mother back."

Eyes wide with genuine alarm, Shawn leaned forward, extending a placating hand. "Jules—"

"Mr. Spencer."

Both Juliet and Shawn turned to find Chief Vick standing the doorway to her office, Carlton just behind her, his expression a combination of annoyance and concern.

"Chief, I was just catching up with Jules on this case she just finished."

"Why?" The Chief's voice was mild, but something in it—not to mention the expression on her face as her gaze shifted from Shawn to Juliet—left Juliet with the distinct sensation that there was more. "You weren't involved."

"Yeah, uh…" Shawn stammered, clearly attempting to drum up some charm, but thrown by the obviously weird vibes traveling through the bullpen. "But I was interested. Seems like it's been occupying a lot of her time."

A cool, dangerous smile crossed the Chief's features while behind her, Carlton's expression was rapidly devolving to thunderous. "I know this concept is a bit beyond your ken, Mr. Spencer, but good, solid police work generally takes time. Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter did exceptional work on this case. They followed not only the evidence, but their instincts and looked beyond the obvious."

Juliet's eyebrows rose as much at the unexpected compliment as at the thinly-veiled criticism.

"Like _I_ do," Shawn said with a smile meant to be ingratiating, Juliet was sure. Just as she was sure the Chief was completely immune to it. Why Shawn hadn't figured it out after all these years was beyond her. "And Jules and I were _just_ talking about how if I'd been called in—"

"But you weren't," the chief broke in, definite frost now coating each word. "And the case is now done, so all I can conclude is that you're needlessly wasting my exhausted detective's time when I'm sure all she wants to do is finish her paperwork and go home for some well-earned rest."

"But Chief—"

"Spencer," Carlton growled, his eyes shooting blue sparks, his knuckles white as they gripped the door frame. "Take a damned hint for once in your misbegotten life."

"Or better still, take a direct suggestion," Juliet broke in, the familiar headache pounding at her temples. God, but he was so damned exhausting. "You need to go, Shawn. Please."

"Jules, look, I _know_ you're exhausted. Let me help. At least take you to dinner or something. Help you unwind?" It might have sounded tempting if not for the fact that at "help you unwind" his eyebrows did that Monty Python _wink wink nudge nudge_ thing and seriously? He thought she'd even be up for anything like that after what she'd confessed this case had taken out of her?

"Shawn, no," she said firmly, latching her hand on to his upper arm and steering his confused and unresisting form toward the hall. "Not tonight. I just… I can't, okay? I'll see you tomorrow." But it was Carlton's gaze she searched out as she made her request, responding to his wide-eyed expression with a small nod.

She was done. Tomorrow, this would be over.

At the station door, she allowed Shawn to brush a light kiss across her mouth, blinking back tears at the inherent sweetness of the gesture. She was going to hurt him and she wasn't looking forward to it, but it was time. As Shawn's motorcycle roared to life she felt a familiar warm presence at her back. Seeing that no one was around, she allowed herself to lean back ever so slightly, sighing as his hand brushed hers.

"Are _we_ still on for dinner?" he asked softly, his mouth barely grazing her ear.

"God yes," she replied on a relieved sigh. "But it'll have to be somewhere really public, because frankly, I don't trust myself to be alone with you."

She felt his smile and the faintest brush of his lips against her temple where the throbbing had receded almost as soon as she'd felt his presence behind her. "But soon?"

Juliet nodded, fresh tears prickling at the backs of her eyes, even as she grinned. "Your days of cold showers will soon be at an end, Detective."

"Thank God." He turned slightly to lean against the wall as a uniform approached the front doors. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes as he lazily smiled. "My water bill's been hell this month."

Delighted and just a little desperate, she laughed and elbowed him lightly. "Come on, Detective. Let's finish those reports. I'm starving."

"So am I," he drawled, as he pushed away from the wall and fell into step beside her.

"Not helping, Carlton."

"Your fault, O'Hara."

She elbowed him again, laughing as she dodged his return nudge, feeling light and despite the knowledge that one final encounter with Shawn awaited her—happy.


	11. Chapter 11

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

A little birdy told me it's Alysheba's birthday, so here you go, dear—hope it fulfills at least a few birthday wishes. :-)

P.S. No, Loafer and I don't _plan_ to post our chapters at the same time. It just sort of seems to work out that way...

* * *

><p>"Oh, what a tangled web we weave."<p>

"When first we practice to deceive," Carlton finished the familiar refrain as Juliet's soft voice drifted off into the night. He looked down at her as they walked along the illuminated waterfront, her hand tucked comfortably in the crook of his elbow. About as public as they could get, though admittedly, he'd been surprised when she suggested it for an after dinner walk. Still, the waterfront was fairly lengthy and they could easily avoid the Psych offices, which, obviously, they were doing. Even though it was well past normal office hours Guster and Spencer habitually spent inordinate amounts of time there—more so than at their respective apartments. _Especially_ if there was some obscure 80s movie or television marathon running. They'd stay at the office long into the night, tucked into their stadium seating recliners and sharing God only knows what sort of stomach rotting crap as they gazed rapturously at the hi-def wide screen, exchanging inanities like savants with their own unique language. Carlton had stumbled upon that scene a couple of times and frankly, found it terrifying.

"Are you thinking about the case or about us?" he asked, looking out across the water, half afraid to hear her answer. Half afraid that she might be rethinking things now that she'd had time to decompress, not to mention, distance from Spencer and his idiotic ramblings.

"Both, I guess." But as his fears tried their damnedest to gain a foothold, she managed to kick them aside by the simple act of sliding her hand down his arm to meet his and leaning her head against his shoulder. Wanting to be closer still, he released her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders, sighing with pleasure as her arm automatically circled his waist beneath his jacket. Without missing a beat, their steps easily fell into sync, even with Juliet's more casual flats shortening her stride more than he was accustomed to.

It was so easy, he thought, for them to adjust to each other. To find ways in which they fit. If it had been anyone _but_ Juliet, he'd be terrified by the ease in their relationship. But dammit, they'd _earned_ it.

"Obviously, we're not going to wind up with as big a mess as John Robicheaux did," she said, looking up at him, her deep blue gaze steady, but still somewhat troubled. "But look how far one small deception—a decision to keep something hidden—spiraled out of control."

"But Robicheaux was a kid at the time and someone else made that decision for him," Carlton pointed out, his fingers toying with the loose strands of hair spilling across her shoulders. "His parents may have been misguided in how they went about it, but they were simply trying to protect their kid. And while I know you're trying to protect Spencer's feelings as much as you can, this situation's not even in the same ballpark. To begin with, he's an adult."

_In theory_.

"In theory." He stopped short and stared down at her while she grinned up at him, cheeks pink from the sea breezes and the tequila shots they'd shared at dinner, her eyes sparkling with _that_ look. The one that enchanted and terrified him because when she wore it, he knew she could see straight into the heart of him. Frankly, it was a miracle he'd been able to keep his feelings under wrap for as long as he had.

"Don't worry—" she reassured him with a stroke against his side that was equal parts comforting and arousing. "_You_ didn't say it out loud."

He shook his head, smiling at her delighted expression. "Scary precision, O'Hara."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Her free hand came up to clasp his on her shoulder, their fingers sliding smoothly together. Turning her head she ghosted a kiss against the back of his hand, near where she'd licked salt from his skin when they downed their shots and just like that, he felt flushed with heat and wishing like hell tomorrow would come already, so she could get her talk with Spencer over with, yet at the same not wanting this moment to end.

They continued walking, stopping occasionally to peer into store windows or comment on a kiosk's wares, more than a few laden with candy and tchotchkes in shades of red and pink, reminding Carlton that Valentine's was just a few days away. And they'd be together.

"Do you want to do anything special for Valentine's?" he asked as they passed another kiosk, this one displaying racks of stupidly cutesy stuffed animals all done up to resemble Cupid, with wings and quivers and honestly, even as high with love and desire as he was, looking more than a little tacky. But for all he knew, she might find them adorable. No point in dismissing them out of hand if it was something she'd like.

She was silent for so long, he began to worry again. That maybe he'd presumed too much or maybe it was uncouth on his part to be thinking about Valentine's when she hadn't even technically broken up with her idiot boyfriend yet.

_Oh, what a tangled web…_

"Juliet?"

She had paused in front of yet another kiosk, studying the far more tasteful display of gourmet chocolates and candies.

"I really don't like Valentine's," she said in a soft voice, her thumb tracing a light, soothing pattern along his.

"You don't?"

Surprising news flash.

He thought all women liked Valentine's. That they liked the candy and flowers and the further along in a relationship, the excuse for more expensive gifts like jewelry, especially if they picked it out themselves and just instructed you to stop by the jeweler's on the way to dinner at the ridiculously stuffy restaurant where they'd reserved the tasting menu with stuff you couldn't even recognize and were supposed to pretend to actually like. Then during some architecturally impossible dessert, they'd open the gift and thank you for whatever it was you'd quote/unquote, gotten them.

Juliet shook her head briefly before releasing his hand and turning to face him, both her hands sliding up to his chest. "I think it's kind of a crappy manufactured holiday. All it does is induce guilt or outrageous senses of entitlement in people who are in relationships and if you're not in a relationship, it just makes you feel even more miserable and alone."

Speechless, he stared down into her face, at the anxiety turning her eyes a dark gray-blue as she worriedly bit her lip. Clearly concerned she'd hurt _his_ feelings. "Carlton—"

He stopped her with a finger to her lips, shivering as the tip of her tongue grazed the pad, warm one moment, then cool, as the ocean breeze wrapped around them and dried the small bit of moisture. Pulling her close, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Scary precision."

"Yeah?" Her breath was warm against his chest and holy mother, was she doing what he thought she was doing with her tongue right where his shirt buttoned? Oh dear God, she _was_.

Thighs so tense he could barely force them to move, he whispered, "_You_ are being bad," steering them away from the kiosk and toward a bench situated beneath a tree and just beyond the reach of a street lamp's light.

Laughing, she sank down onto the bench beside him, throwing one warm, jeans-clad leg over his thigh and running her fingers through his hair. "Sorry."

"Are not."

He captured the wayward hand that was playing with the collar of his shirt and threatening to wander lower. Giving his head a hard shake, he tried to remember what they'd been talking about. Valentine's. Yeah. That. Commercialized claptrap. And if he'd ever harbored even the slightest bit of doubt that she was the perfect woman for him, it would have been instantly eradicated with her heartfelt declaration about Valentine's Day.

"So you don't like Valentine's either?"

"Hello, have you _met_ me?" he retorted, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline.

Once again she laughed, a sweet, silvery sound he cherished being able to bring out in her.

"Okay, in all honesty, I don't mind the idea of Valentine's per se." Carlton sorted through his thoughts and chose his words with care. "But if I'm involved with someone," he said slowly, looking out towards the water, "I'd like to think I'd be able to show them how I feel every day. Not just save it up for one day and hope it makes up for being a thoughtless bastard the rest of the year. Seeing as that approach didn't exactly work for me before."

"Oh."

The sounds of the waves lapping against the nearby sea wall and distant clanging of a buoy and the chatter of people passing by all faded as he turned back and felt himself enveloped by her wide-eyed gaze. The gaze that even cloaked by shadows revealed a growing comprehension.

"Oh, Carlton."

Bending the knee she had thrown over his thigh, she used it to pull herself closer, molding her body against his as her arm looped around his neck, her forehead touching his.

"I feel like an idiot."

His fingertips trailed along her cheek, twisting in a wavy lock of hair. "Why?"

"Because it took me so long to notice."

"I'm not the same man you first met," he replied softly, sliding his hand more fully into her thick hair. Cupping her head, he closed the small distance that remained between their mouths. "I've been trying to become a man who's worthy of you, Juliet."

Carlton swallowed her quiet sigh as his mouth covered hers fully, groaning as her tongue immediately slid against his, sweet with tequila and cinnamon and pure Juliet. Holding her head steady with one hand, the other dropped to her hip, flexing against the soft warm denim of her jeans as he molded her more closely to his body, lost in the feel of her. Her hands were tangled in his hair, tight almost to the point of pain as she moaned softly into his mouth, her teeth pulling at his lip in a sharp bite that made _every_ muscle in his body tighten and flare with heat and to hell with waiting for her to talk to Spencer. They both knew she'd made her decision and he had to have her. They had to go. _Now_—

"Jules?"

The familiar nickname broke through the passionate fog clouding Carlton's brain.

"Juliet_?_"

Sharper now, making Juliet pull back slightly, clear panic in her eyes as they both registered the incredulous voice.

_Jesus Christ_.

"Let me," he murmured. Muscles tense for an entirely different reason, Carlton smoothed Juliet's hair soothingly before standing and stepping from the shadows to face the voice's owner.

_"Lassie_?"

A few feet away, Shawn Spencer stared at him, wide-eyed. In a bubble of silence, Carlton watched as the man's hand slowly dropped to his side, half-eaten creamsicle sliding from slack fingers to land on the walkway with an almost soundless _plop_. As if in slow motion, he saw the realization began to dawn, the pieces falling into place, Spencer's disbelieving gaze ranging from him to Juliet's pale, but oddly calm countenance, and back to him. Color flooded the younger man's face as his eyes narrowed with full comprehension.

"You son of a _bitch_."

Carlton stood still, taking the full force of the punch he'd seen coming from a mile away, his only move instinctively putting an arm out to keep Juliet from rushing to his defense. This was _his _fight, dammit and he'd waited a long time for it.

Cheek aching, he easily deflected Spencer's next, equally predictable punch, grabbing the other man's arm and twisting it up behind his back. Shoving him face first against the tree trunk, he growled, "I gave you that one because I figure you're entitled," easily holding the smaller man in place despite his near-vicious bucking. Jerking Spencer's arm higher up his back he added, "But that's all you get."

His voice dropped to the dangerous snarl he reserved for the worst scumbag perps. "I warned you, didn't I?"

With a shove, he released Spencer, stepping back and easily evading the other man's wild swing, making sure to keep Juliet behind him. But she was no one's wilting flower either, stepping between them with a sharp, "Shawn, stop it!" effectively bringing Spencer to a halt, but it was Carlton she faced, brows drawn together.

"Are you okay?" she asked anxiously, reaching out to carefully touch the throbbing skin beneath his left eye.

"I'll be fine." Although truthfully, it hurt like a mother. Little bastard had packed more of a wallop than he expected. Then again, Carlton thought ruefully, if _he'd_ come across the woman he loved in another man's arms—

He shuddered. The thought didn't even bear consideration. And in this case, he _was_ the other man. A black eye was going to be a small enough price to pay for deliberately shredding another man's relationship—not to mention his dignity.

"Who the hell are you to decide that I wasn't treating Juliet right?" Spencer snapped, pushing Juliet's arm out of the way and prompting Carlton to step forward, stopping only at the touch of her palm to his chest.

"I didn't have to make that decision, nimrod," he shot back. "_Think_ about it. If she'd been completely happy with you, would she have even _seen_ me? No matter what I did, I would've just stayed Carlton—her partner, her buddy—Lassie, the butt of your stupid-ass jokes. But time after time you disappointed her. Time after time, you _hurt_ her, you selfish jackass. She didn't deserve it."

"Oh, but she deserves _you_?" Spencer scoffed.

"She deserves someone who'll treat her like she's the most important person in his life." Carlton's voice was cold and absolute. "Who puts her first. Who lets her know what she means to him, every damned day."

"And _you_ do that?"

"Yes. He does." Juliet's quiet voice shattered the tension with the impact of a bomb. She stood there, looking so serious and so determined and then she _smiled_, and oh, God, that smile and the way she _looked_ at him as she did—

Given the situation, Carlton resisted the temptation to fist pump, especially considering how Spencer's face transformed at Juliet's words, its puckish boyishness fading and leaving behind a man who was really and truly understanding he'd lost. Yet his fists clenched at his sides, indicating he wasn't giving up without a final bout and for the first time, Carlton could honestly respect the other man's feelings for Juliet.

"You said you'd shoot me," Spencer reminded him quietly. "Repeatedly."

"I did."

"You did?" Juliet repeated, her brows high. Carlton shook his head slightly, mouthing _Later_ and despite the gravity of the situation, fighting back a grin at her crossed-arms, _You bet you'll be explaining later,_ expression. He returned his attention to Spencer, who kept looking between them with an expression veering between confusion and betrayal—as if their exchange was a foreign concept, utterly beyond him. And again, Carlton felt a twinge of pity for the little bastard. Not much, because he'd brought this situation on himself, but a little.

"I don't know—shooting you might have been easier." He sighed as Spencer's gaze met his directly once more. "Look, Shawn, you're just going to have to deal with the fact that I love her. Why do you think I hated you two being together so damned much?"

Spencer flinched at Carlton's unaccustomed use of his first name, his fists opening and closing at his sides. "I don't know, man. Because you hate me?"

Carlton shoved an impatient hand through his hair. "Dammit, Spencer, I don't hate you. Not all the time, at least. Yes, you drive me batshit crazy and no, I don't think there's any universe in which we could ever be real friends, but hate you?" He pressed his lips together, not believing what he was about to say. "No. I respect your abilities too much, even if your entire presence in my professional life is based on a lie."

He took a deep breath angry that this was how his feelings had come to light and tempted to punch Spencer, just one good one, because yet again, he'd completely screwed with Carlton's plans. And for all he cared, Spencer could blindside him, because if he was going to say it again, he was going to say it to her face, dammit.

Turning to face Juliet, he looked into the endless blue depths of her eyes—God, but he could get lost in them forever. He hoped he'd have that chance.

"I hated you two being together so damned much because I love her. I've loved her for a long time."

She was utterly still, nothing moving other than the strands of hair blowing across her face and the rapid darting of her eyes as she studied him, unblinking. "You love me?"

A grin tugged at his mouth as he moved closer—close enough to feel her warmth and breathe her in. "Not exactly how I expected to tell you."

"When has anything about us been expected?" A slow answering grin crossed her face as she took that final step that brought her toe-to-toe with him, tilting her head back. "I think we'd better get used to unexpected."

"Oh, dear God."

"You'll be fine," she reassured him, placing a comforting hand on his chest and heading off his instinctive panic. "_We'll_ be fine."

_We'll._ She'd said we. She'd picked him. And even though he already knew she'd chosen him, to hear it delivered in her soft, reassuring voice was enough to send his heart rate nuts with relief. It was real.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He would have leaned down to kiss her if not for the soft, sad, "Jules?"

Juliet bit her lip as Carlton nodded, stepping aside for Spencer.

For the last time.

Yet she didn't go far, made certain, with a glance over her shoulder, that everything between them would remain open—no secrets.

Leaning against the tree, hands shoved in his jeans' pockets, Spencer said, "I guess this is goodbye, huh?"

She nodded. "For us, yeah. I'm so sorry, Shawn."

"Don't be. I guess I finally blew it." He shrugged, obviously trying to play it off with typical Shawn Spencer insouciance, though the motion was tight and his very real pain obvious in the lines of his face. For the first time, Carlton thought, the other man looked every one of his thirty-five years.

Spencer's sharp hazel gaze looked past Juliet to find Carlton's. "Does that deal stand the other way?"

Carlton nodded, ignoring Juliet's eloquent eyeroll. She could eyeroll all she wanted—this was a distinctly male thing and as male things went, it beat the hell out of peeing in a corner to mark territory.

With an answering nod, Spencer pushed away from the tree. "I guess I'll say goodnight, then. Gus is probably in insulin shock waiting for the creamsicles." He started to walk away, then turned abruptly and dropped a quick kiss to Juliet's cheek with a soft, "I'm sorry, Jules."

Juliet nodded and stepped back beside Carlton, taking his hand. Together, they watched him lope off down the walkway, stopping at an ice cream vendor's truck and taking off with what looked like at least a dozen ice cream bars.

"Take me home?"

He closed his eyes briefly as her hand tightened around his and her head found its perfect place against his shoulder.

"I thought you'd never ask."


	12. Chapter 12

**No Smoke Without Fire**

As usual, no infringement intended, no ownership in **psych**, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', just borrowing a corner of the sandbox.

Spoilers through ep. 6.09: _Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat_

Fair warning, children: we're heading into the **M **territory. Gotta give these two crazy kids their payoff after 11 chapters of torture.

* * *

><p>"Ow."<p>

"Hush, now, you've had worse." Juliet carefully adjusted the bag of frozen peas she'd fished from Carlton's freezer over his swollen left eye. "Far worse. Now hold it there."

One brilliant blue eye glared up at her, the combination of exasperation and frustration abundantly clear, but his hand where it rested on her waist was gentle and still.

"I can't believe you just stood there and let him hit you."

"He deserved at least that much." The corners of his mouth twitched. "Be grateful he doesn't carry a weapon. He really is a hell of a shot, although if you ever tell him I said that, I'll deny it."

"Somehow, I'm not thinking I'll have much occasion to engage in that sort of casual conversation for a while." It was sad, sort of, but her sadness was more for how it had ended than the actual end of the relationship. If anything, that scene at the waterfront had just served to illustrate that really, she'd let it go on for too long.

"Are you okay with that?" His uncovered eye studied her carefully. "Are _you_ okay?" he asked softly, his hand moving from her waist to capture hers.

"I'm fine." She sighed and sank beside him on the sofa. "I really am," she stressed in response to the skeptical lift of his eyebrow. "I'm just tired," she confessed, her head dropping to his shoulder and God, how she loved how it felt so perfect beneath her head, warm and solid, his arm automatically circling her shoulders in a protective embrace that allowed her to relax further.

"You know that kind of tired where you've been going and going and you don't realize just how tired you really are until you stop?"

"All too well," he replied and something in the tenor of his voice—a note of deep-seated loneliness and fear and sadness—caused her heart to skip a beat. Tilting her head back, she pressed a gentle kiss to the strong, angular line of his jaw. Trying to let him know she was there for him now.

Lifting a hand, she ran it through Carlton's soft, thick hair, her fingers catching on the various cowlicks, the light highlighting the abundant silver. How she loved how it contrasted with the black—loved it on his head, loved what she'd seen of it on his chest. Couldn't wait to see more of it. Of him.

"I didn't really understand how exhausting the whole thing had gotten until the moment he said my name down at the waterfront." The tips of her fingers traced the edge of his ear—she knew he thought they were too big, but so long as he didn't get frustrated and buzz cut his hair again, they were fine. All of him was fine. And hers. "After that first moment of panic, what I felt was relief that this was it—it was done. " Her stomach clenched at the thought of what else that moment had revealed—in such absolute stunning clarity, she was surprised it hadn't appeared in neon above her head.

With a sigh Juliet snuggled closer against him, her eyes drifting shut as the hand toying with his ear moved to his neck, the other coming to rest against his chest, his heartbeat steady and reassuring.

"I love you, too, you know."

Beneath her palm his chest rose and fell in a giant, shuddering breath and she thought she heard a nearly soundless "Thank God," escape on his exhale.

She'd already known she cared for Carlton—loved him, even. That had never really been in question. Their relationship—their bond—was too deeply forged in a closely shared past and experiences for her not to love him. But out of everything he'd done for her, seeing Carlton stand and take the brunt of Shawn's anger and betrayal—because he felt it was a debt owed and one that was worth it to him—had brought her emotions into clear, diamond-sharp focus. Confirmed the suspicions that had been plaguing her for weeks, during those endless, dream-filled nights.

Opening her eyes, she reached up and gently removed the bag of frozen peas from his eye, tossing it to the table as she sat up and carefully straddled his lap. As his hands automatically rose to span her waist, Juliet took his face in her hands, smiling down into the eyes that had always captivated her not so much for their stunning range of colors, but by the emotion they revealed when he so chose. And right now she was seeing in them so much that had been there—for so long—but had never recognized. Hadn't been ready to recognize.

"As it so happens, I don't just love you, Carlton," she said softly. "I'm absolutely, head-over-heels, completely _in_ love with you." One thumb slowly, carefully traced the shallow, vulnerable curve of his lower lip as his mouth parted. "I suspect it's a forever sort of _in_ love." Her pulse beat insistently at the base of her throat at the sight of his wide-eyed gaze, their color rapidly darkening into that deep, dangerous blue that she'd first seen in the dim light of the Paramount.

"I hope you're okay with that."

"So very okay, you have no idea."

The last thing she saw before her eyes drifted completely shut and her mouth met his was an expression of absolute joy in those eyes. One that she was going to do her damnedest to bring to light again and again. But for now—

Oh, how she loved how he kissed. So slow and thorough like he was learning her from the inside out, his tongue stroking hers in smooth sensuous motions that had her thighs instinctively tightening against his as her hands slid to his hair.

And unlike every other time they'd kissed, there was no sense of fear or guilt. No one to whom they could be held accountable, no reason for them to be interrupted, no obligations that had to be met—there was just Juliet and Carlton.

She sighed at the thought—Juliet and Carlton. Carlton and Juliet. O'Hara and Lassiter. So right.

Her head dropped back, exposing her neck to him as he trailed small kisses down to the curve where it met her shoulder, his teeth latching on and sucking gently. Marking her as his. Making her impatient for the opportunity to do the same to him.

All of a sudden, the world shifted as he turned her in his lap and stood, cradling her close as he made his way to the bedroom.

"We could've just stayed on the couch," she said, laughing as she peppered small kisses along his jaw, nipping at his ear lobe.

"The hell we could," he muttered, letting her slide to her feet. "I have waited too long for this, Juliet. Dreamed too many times about this."

"Me, too," she said, her fingers quickly working the buttons of his crisp cotton shirt, pushing the dark blue fabric from his shoulders and sighing with pleasure. "Like, literally," she confessed, her cheeks heating as her hands spread across his chest, the hair coarse beneath her palms, his skin so impossibly warm.

"I kept having these dreams of seeing you... naked—"

"In those stupid temporary showers in the parking lot," he finished on a gasp as her nails gently teased the small, flat discs of his nipples.

"Yeah—" She arched her back as he grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head before unfastening her bra in one smooth motion, gasping as he brought her flush against him, chest to chest, her nipples hardening at the feel of skin and hair and hard muscle. "How—how'd you guess?"

"I was having the same damned dream. Among others. You've been in this bed with me for a long time now, O'Hara."

There was a sense of inevitability about it, Juliet thought, as Carlton very slowly, very thoroughly, seduced the hell out of her. Let her seduce the hell out of him in turn. From shedding the remainder of their clothing to lying together on the bed, exploring each others' bodies and learning what caresses elicited a gasp or what subtle shift would draw out a moan. What drove her over the edge, time and again, making her arch her back and gasp his name—what brought him to the brink, making his muscles tense and the cords on his neck strain with the tension of holding back because there was only one absolute he had for tonight and that was that first time, he would only give himself completely to her. In her.

And when they couldn't wait any longer, Juliet drew his long lean body over hers and with a sigh of utter completion and even more heightened arousal, learned just how perfectly they fit together. One thigh hooked over his hip, she moved against him as they discovered their own rhythms and within those rhythms, their own world.

* * *

><p>This was everything Juliet had ever wanted.<p>

Facing each other on the bed, their hands clasped together, talking about any and everything. Only one fear marred the perfect joy of this moment.

"Carlton, I don't want to be separated from you."

"Well, at my age, that might be a challenge—usually takes a little longer to recover, but the way you make me feel, anything's possible."

Smug jerk. Yet while she couldn't help but laugh at his relaxed Cheshire Cat smile and the deep blue intensity of his eyes, the niggling fear remained.

"We'll investigate your stamina further," she promised—oh _boy_, did she promise because they had a lot of lost time to make up for— "But that's not what I mean and you know it."

His smiled gentled as he shifted and drew her against his chest and dear God, all that warm skin against hers felt so good she nearly forgot what they were talking about. What were they talking about?

"We're not going to be separated and no one's going to be transferred."

Right.

That.

Her smile faded as her fingertips trailed through the coarse curls of hair, down to his flat stomach and across to his hip, curving over the smooth skin there. Holding on. She'd only just gotten him—she was damned if she was letting him go—in any way. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

"You sound awfully certain."

"Not sound—I _am_ certain."

"But how?"

"You know how I was in Vick's office earlier?"

"Yeah." She eased back far enough to look into his face. "I assumed that was tying up loose ends with the Robicheaux case."

Hard to believe, too, that it was just a few hours earlier. Her entire world had shifted in a matter of hours, bringing with it a whole new focus. But two things hadn't changed—she wanted to remain a cop and she wanted to do so with Carlton by her side. That those two things went together was indisputable in her mind, but if she had to give one up for the other—well, no brainer what her choice would be.

He shook his head. "I very simply asked Karen to consider how much of a disruption Shawn had been to the department, both before and after the two of you started dating."

"And?"

"She said he'd been nothing short of a giant pain in the ass who tempted her on a daily basis to change her views on police brutality, but that cases _did_ get solved."

No surprise there—that was open knowledge.

Her brows drew together. "Where are you going with this, Carlton?"

Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he said, "I then asked her to consider how much of a disruption I had been to the station considering I had been in love with you for years." He took the hand resting on his hip in his and drew it up to his mouth, very gently kissing the back. "That if she could come up with even one instance where my feelings for you had compromised a case or painted the department in a negative light, that she could accept my letter of resignation, effective immediately." At her gasp he added, "I did tell you I was prepared to take the consequences, Juliet. That I would be the one to do so. I meant it."

Terrified now, she could barely force out a shaky, "And—?"

"She said after giving it some thought, one notable instance did come to mind."

"Carlton, _no_!"

"Relax, baby." His voice was a soothing rumble as he drew her suddenly shaking body against his, letting his warmth seep into her chilled skin.

"I can't lose you," she whispered against his chest, tears clogging her throat. "I can't do this job without you. I mean, I _can_," she clarified, shaking her head, "but I don't want to."

"You won't have to." His big hands stroked her hair and back as he rocked her, ghosting kisses along her hairline.

"But she said—"

"Yeah, well, she also said considering that one instance had resulted in my saving my partner's life, she would consider it an exception and look past it."

What he was saying slowly penetrated, helping to calm her shaky nerves as much as his slow caresses and continued gentle rocking. "She's not going to separate us?" she said against his chest, hope slowly unfurling and easing the remaining tension holding her muscles hostage.

"No, Juliet. She's not going to separate us. Provided we keep working together the way we always have, for the time being, we're good."

"For the time being?" She lifted her head and met his gaze. "What does that mean?"

For the first time in a long time the shy, awkward Carlton she'd known for so long surfaced in the nervous fidgeting of his hands against her back and the wide, slightly terrified look in his eyes. And she didn't need light to know that he was blushing madly, judging by the rising heat of his skin against hers.

"It means if we get married—" Each word emerged husky and slow with uncertainty. "It's a decision that has to be revisited."

Behind the uncertainty she could clearly hear the fear—that it was too fast, too soon. That he understood while it was something he'd been living with for years, she'd only had a few days, really, to get used to the idea of him as the man in her life. Only a few hours since the dissolution of a relationship she'd waited a long time for.

But in his voice she clearly heard the intense desire to be completely honest and open with her and she knew what that cost him, her fiercely private Carlton, so afraid to reveal himself for fear of the hurt he might suffer as a result.

Cupping his face in her palms she leaned in and brushed a sweet, light kiss against that mouth that was so often held in stern lines, yet relaxed and yielded beneath hers, molding to a perfect, breathless fit.

"I guess we'll be revisiting it, then," she whispered against his mouth, gasping at the feel of his tongue tracing a slow, devastating line along her lower lip.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." After a deep, slow kiss she drew back and looked into his eyes. "Sooner rather than later, okay?"

Joy lit his eyes and brightened his entire face to something wonderful that Juliet wanted to see over and over again. For the next fifty years or so.

"And what about work?"

She grinned as she wound her arms around his neck and insinuated a leg between his, rubbing her thigh in a maddening, sensual rhythm. "I'm sure if we put our heads together, we'll figure out a solution that'll be acceptable to everyone. But I'm not spending another minute apart from you, Carlton Lassiter. "

He groaned as his body hardened and arched against hers, seeking her heat. "Good thing you won't have to."

As he rolled her to her back, she held him close and whispered, "Thank you."

Propped on an elbow, he gently brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "For what?"

She gazed up into his utterly beloved features. "For fighting for my heart."

"What else could I do?" As he slid slowly into her, claiming her body the way he had her heart, he whispered in her ear, "You captured mine years ago."


End file.
